Love

I am reading a book about
love and things, it's
beautiful. There's
a girl who does not love
things, though she is full of
potential love (almost exploding
with it) and I think maybe,
I am the opposite.
The sunset; broken mug;
book so old it has been
taped together multiple times,
multiple places; these
are all things I love. Yet when
I look inside, I only see hope.
My love does not live
within me- it is around me.






I'm almost nearly done with Everything is Illuminated, and I've been reading it quite a bit. Whenever someone asks what I'm reading, and what it's about, I just fail to explain.
This is actually not a good poem at all, and I'm going to blame that on the lack of motivation & creativity.