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.