and I know you mean no offense.
But you tore up all my works,
sprinkled them on the grass,
and haven’t bothered with
any of them since.
If you can't stand poetry,
how long will it be
until you can't stand me?
I wander home,
I wonder alone,
what it would take to break your rule.
After all, this is me, who you've known,
and not some pith spat from school.
How would you feel about poems
if they were written solely for you?
If they were dripped in honey,
something borrowed and tested and true?
I wish I could give it up.
I wish I could write a song
or dance along
with all you consider to be cute.
Hell, I wish I was mute.
Then I'd sit outside
on the bitter ground
and flail my arms around
to show how much you mean to me.
Maybe then you'd drop a coin into my cup.
In spite of the sting of your words,
I don't really blame you.
Because if I were to suddenly be you,
I'd hate my poems, too.
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