Blanks

Why must every word

in a poem 

contain a profound meaning,

every punctuation mark,

every space,

meticulously chosen

deleted, 

replaced,

filling words

with meaning

where there is none,

We are all hanging 

on the coattails of

Shakespeare,

so why do I write?

I look at my cat

his coal black fur and

soft green eyes staring back at me,

because I have to.
I refuse to believe there's a choice.