I can feel you near me,
The warmth from your hand on the table,
Radiating out to me,
And I can barely stop myself from reaching out,
To grasp your hand,
Reminding myself that you’re human,
Capable of feeling.
But I won’t.
You can hear and see and comprehend,
But my meaning falls deaf on your ears.
The words I write out on my soul,
You can barely read.
And you know-it-all,
And have seen-it-all,
But you cannot possibly understand me,
Or my half-hearted attempts at honesty.
You sit there calm,
Barely breathing,
Seeing but not really seeing,
Living but not really living,
And I want to scream,
“I am a poet listen to my words!”
And I want to shove ever single doodled bit of stanza down your throat,
Forcing you to suck some meaning from the cluttered mess of my brain,
And heart and soul,
I want to press the palm of my hand over your silent lips,
And force you to swallow,
One time,
Would be enough.
And if you hated my words…
I’d love you.
And if you loved them…
I’d love you harder.
Anything but the dispassionate mask you wear so often,
Or the tiny shake of your head you use to stem the fountain of my words,
No,
Not tonight,
Maybe later.
As if I am a disobedient child,
And you are the parent.
And the silence you shove at me,
Tells me clearly,
Only if you’re good,
Stay quiet,
Play nice with others.
Only then will you take into consideration,
The fruit of my young and complicated brain,
You with your sad shallow eyes,
Do not even try to listen,
And I pack more meaning into one sentence,
Then you do in a solid month,
You de-caffeinated your soul,
Leaving me without the jitter.
And you expect me to stay faithful,
Romancing a stone.
Well you can take your warm hand and sweaty palm,
And I’ll take my poetry with me,
When I leave.