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.
