Maybe I Don’t Want to Write

Maybe I don’t want to write this lousy poem.

Perhaps today I am short of words,

Enslaved to the darkness that I have become

And the feelings I’ve acquainted myself with.

Maybe today I can’t create a sentence

The way you want it to be

Or the way you want you to be.

Are you not feeling as vulnerable

Or as inconceivably sad as I wrote?

Maybe I don’t want to write again

And be the god of this paper,

The guardian of these simple words.

How will anyone remember me?

Remember my outbursts,

The tune of my loud laughter

Or the roughness of my pale skin?

How will I be remembered

If no one writes about me?

Maybe tonight I don’t want to write this poem.

Perhaps tonight I want to be words –

Be an endless sentence broken

And glued together by your language.

You can write about my soul,

The colour of my greasy, messy hair

How short my fingernails always seem to be,

Or how sometimes I fall short of words.

Maybe tonight you can make me the poem

And make me seem beautiful

Without a photograph or camera by your side.

Maybe tonight I can be imprinted on paper,

The same paper I write on every day.

The paper that never captures me

Like it captures the words I don’t want to write.