It’s not that I don’t want to be yours or that I want to be anyone else’s. It’s that the guy on the subway is too loud. Good samaritan he says. That’s when he lost me. I took out my ear phone for this? I stopped my poetry to be judged before I even decide not to give up a buck? Try a different approach man. You know who I liked? The gentleman who sang the song about the little girl and her grandfather.
Write pretty poems to your dear sister. Courageous statement. You say. That’s quite a courageous statement you repeat. Who needs courage when you aren’t afraid. Who needs to be bold when you don’t fucking care. When every day is the same when every cry is dry. Incomplete. Every delivery is empty. Every song contrived and full of love. Tell a story draw a picture make a date you can’t make make them smile make them want. Keep them watered. Don’t become those things and realize you already are. I don’t know that I can do this anymore. The fantasy was so fresh. So mine and it’s own and shared and uncompared and misunderstood and never really heard. The wish bracelette is broken. Never spoken. The magic is yours. Torn. Deformed. Unhealthy. Contagious. Made up.
I look at my bar from a spot I stand in often and I feel taller. I’m not even wearing my docs.