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 😉