This is for the boy who told meWriting is useless.The one who insists that -Art and writing don’t mix.Who only likes poems that are easy to understandWhen they’re free of metaphor.This is me -On the edge of my insanity,Dropping pennies,Gathering speed as they fall onto the worldYou insist isConcrete.They’re falling fast now,Whizzing past mathScienceStraight lines into the sidewalk Breaking your pathAs you walk home with art supplies andCynicism gently tucked into a back pocket.This is me -Standing with a microphone made of wires from former lovers,Plus a handle of the bones of future ones,I’m holding itPrimed to kick your ass.SliceJulienneYou with cleverly disguised similes becauseI’m sick of 3 am shouting matchesAbout how I’m not getting paid to write soI’m a waste.Sick of the hollow ears that areFilled with pastels.The tongue that will never sip ink The way it drinks vodka.I could never write you love poems.I could never write the“Don’t look at her that way”Poems -The“Summer’s almost over and I’m alone”Poems.
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