You don’t know what you’re asking when you ask for a poem…
You’re asking me to give birth on demand from an empty womb….
… so instead I do heart surgery with rusty tools.
And words pick up rust like white gloves pick up dust –
No matter what I want them to be when I put them down
they’re stained by your damned request.
Should I find some eloquent way to express that I’m not a hot mess?
that crazy left the room years ago and now it’s just me – drama free?
There’s no monkey or organ grinder with me?
Or is it just in time for my soliloquy?
I’m in this room – no keys to rattle in the lock anytime soon…
talking to the walls about what my pretty little head started sowing…
when you asked me to write a poem.
Inspired by a few Namaste Bitches 😉