I want to be me but you keep on repeating
how my world is not yours. I want to be you
but you keep on explaining how hard
that could be, what with my wings
and my brains in the sky.
I want to be someone else
just for a day
these blues in me
I bust out once in awhile
and go to the hotel
and stare at the window
and wonder what happened to us.
It’s three o’clock in the morning
and you’re actually sleeping
through my existential crisis.
Again? yes, again and again
I knew you could never handle me.
Why do people who say
“I love you” want you to change
in ways that are not in your nature?
I say “I love you” and can define why.
I love the flaws and imperfections.
I see the world in an absurd way
in a theatre with the playwrights
who made it so. Ionesco weeps
with me too. We all discuss the marvels
of how hating someone
is still loving someone.
I don’t know how you came
to use sex and art as your bullets.
I caught them in my mouth and with my pen
and looked at you to see the love in your eyes
but it wasn’t there.
I still love you though.
I know I don’t deserve it.
I’m wicked now.
A human weeping willow tree,
churning poems for no money.
If only we could be rich
off of words.
If only you cared for me
more than what you claim.
Loving me is difficult I know.
I thought you would smash all the pictures
along my wall
but you only added your photo there
and now I stare at emptiness.
I embrace cupid
and this horrible frightening love.