Give me some years and tools
To figure things out on my own
And when I learn to spit in my own face,
Then I’ll get back to you in writing
These days
I’m terribly afraid
That in one stirring flash
Everyone will know what I’m talking about
With that,
All at once,
Everyone I’ve ever written about
Will yell at me at the same time
This is unrelated,
But I was thinking about it;
I want to hurt you hard
Hard enough to make you cry
I have no malice,
Only love gone tired, gone
And I have said a lot of things
From the anchor of a broken heart
To hurt you just enough to keep you
Not let you sail away
I’m tired of writing poems about the present moment
I want to have concepts, I want to have ideas!
But instead I have lots of words
And no one to really say them
And what feels like the beginning stages of carpal tunnel
Maybe I'd be a real writer
If I had a real desk
Instead of typing at funny angles all the time.