You ask me to write
and I do.
Maybe to impress you.
Maybe cause I like my voice in my head.
Or Maybe cause I like your head against my voice.
You ask me to write
and I do.
I promise not to turn this into a poem.
If you promise not to read it.
Cause now see you do,
the nothings I have to say for you.
You ask me to write
and I do.
There’s a strength to words repeated.
Songs howled out loud.
But to whom does my church bells ring?
You ask me to write
and I do.
And if open up I won’t, others I will.
Are we mid trauma?
What is trauma with a deadline?
My landlord believes the world will be a better place after this.
I don’t tell her that prisons only break people
into smaller pieces.
Why do I turn my windows into walls?
You ask me to write
and I do.
Balconies are full these days.
Can we only exist in diagonals?
Chests to the front, butts to the back.
Heads to the front, legs..
Etc.
Gentle faces. Bored faces.
Angry faces. Drunk faces.
Etc.
Naked bodies.
Bloated bodies.
Yearning bodies.
Etc.
You ask me to write
and I do.
The strokes have been on since yesterday.
Long hair and childish carelessness.
Tight jeans and poetry.
It’s okay if your two chords fit my song
and my dreams the palm of your hand.
You ask me to write
and I do.
