(ǝʌıʇɔǝdsɹǝԀ) ǝɹO

Poem, Poetry

Were all accords made for self

my thoughts may be more candid,

were I still budding and ignorant then

I’d have thought I could plan things.

I’d have girded excuses

then you’d render them useless,

like I planned it,

then I’d grin

and you’d sigh

and watch the bullshit vanish.

 

Maybe it’s easy to write

since I’m not forced to say things.

I’m not forced to be patient.

I’m not forced into waiting.

I’m not broadcasting my thoughts

and waiting for you to ‘okay’ things.

Maybe it’s easy to lay awake at night,

make poems out of statements,

maybe it’s simple to scream into the ether

and avert conversation.

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