I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!
I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security.
What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?
Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.
What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don't know and I'm afraid.