I Wish I Was An Elephant

I forgot that sadness has a place in poetry,
despite despair's clear handwriting
on the dingy walls of art.

I forgot that angry was a product of pain,
despite the rage I can wield like a weapon.

I forgot about love being found and not borne,
despite remembering the kind white softness of my mother's hands,
and the earnest spittle of my father's goodnight kiss.

I forgot how art can heal,
could only stare at the ragged hole rejection left.