You say I am a poet.
I tell you I am nothing.
You say I craft words.
I tell you I build nothing.
You look confused.
Imagine how I feel
that with a mere smile
the raise of an eyebrow
you push the words
right onto me.
That's right!
Don't you see now?
I am your paper.
You are 10,000 words
waiting to be written,
100 feelings
waiting to be had.
I lay myself bare to you,
an empty page,
just awaiting the
spill of your ink....

your silhouette
bleeds
a background
of tears
inside me and
flowing out
of me the
pain of ages
held in rages
my soul in cages

your handprint
touchless
yet pushes me
to the
breaking point
like stapled glass
no true fix
for the pieces
you've left me in
broken child
meek and mild
none the wild

your empty boot
doc martens
though maybe
endlessly
crushes me
my will ground
under such
an empty
sole as you
what shall I do
but wait
for
the other boot
to drop
imprint lies
self despies
no big surprise

why can't I see
you are
what I have
built you to be
an empty form
an ink-less print
a weightless step
all kept alive by me
fake anatomy

I loved you
but I didn't know
how to show it
I always seem
to blow it.

I loved you
such patience
and trust
but as usual
I was too much.

I loved you
your soft
sweet voice
but I pushed
so hard you really
had no choice.

I loved you
but I didn't
pay attention
to where we
were heading
and it was finally
the straw the
camel was dreading.

I loved you
but I didn't listen
now I'm all alone
and it's you
that I'm missing.

Can I want to be
Oh so much like you
Maybe instead of who I am
Easily able to walk away
Beyond even giving a ****
Always ready to open or
Close any old door I choose
Kicking to the curb
Those I deem mere refuse
Of course then you wouldn't
Matter as much as now you do
Existing without you surely I'd be blue

Dust coats a globe
long left un-spinned
thick lairs of neglect
mirrored also within.

High on a shelf
surrounded by books
I can spot Türkiye
with only a quick look.

She is there, yanno,
she who holds my
heart in her hands
6000 miles away in
a whole different land.

As I dust off the layer
of neglect I think back
to how it felt to kiss
her neck.

I close my eyes and give
it a spin to make sure
it still works (and take
my mind of how I was
such a ****.)

Like the globe I didn't
take the best care of
her. I didn't listen
to what it was she
preferred.

Now, I'm here with my
books, my quills and
my dusty, barely
spinning worlds. Alone
writing bad poetry and
missing that special
girl.