I can’t write poetry
Not right now
But I’m obligated to
I have to
Impress you.

I’m too
Narcissistic
To let you ignore me.

I’m reading too much into this
And
You’re not doing this
To hurt me
Or toy with my emotions.

You’re probably just occupied
Elsewhere.

Which is really unfortunate
Because whether you did it
Sentiently
Or unconsciously
You set a trap from which
I’m don’t know if I can
Or want to
Escape from.

And I’ve got to be reading too much into this
I’ll just try harder
Until you notice me a little more.

I’m not used to being challenged

But you’re probably just occupied
Elsewhere
Or with someone else

It really makes me wonder
Why we do these things.

I promise I have reasons
For acting like I do.

I
think
I missed
Having these
Little crushes
Late night thoughts,
Later night dreams of
Things that I didn't expect
To ever cross my mind ever
Ever ever again.

You're so beautiful
In a way I can't describe
I won't even try

You're so breathtaking
Language isn't enough, here
Inamorata

Simple syllables
An equation for feelings
I just like haikus

You've played marvelously.
You've been what I wanted.
You've maintained the perfect amount
of          disconnection
of          apathy
of          nonchalance
and       disinterest

And it has driven me mad.
I've been writing songs about you.
You've got me the perfect kind
of          obsessed
of          committed
of          infected
and       controlled

I mean, don't get me wrong:
My rhetoric gives the false impression
That I'm not enjoying this immensely.
It's been a long time since anyone moved like you.

I could accuse you of cheating
But only in embitterment
Only because I don't want to be drowned
In rules I don't remember.

There's something tragic here.
But it's the perfect kind
of          adversity
of          affliction
of          infelicity

Of tragedy.

I wish I could express my emotions like you can;
I wish I could show someone I really am me.
But I don't know if I can be so personal --
Maybe I'm afraid to be.

It's easy to be a guitarist,
Because I can form songs with my bare hands.
But could I really be a poet?
Could I really use my words to show you who I am?

But I can't spend the rest of my life
          comparing
                    my poetry
                              to yours
Because your words have meaning

And I don't know what mine are for.


You know, it's possible I'm in love with being in love.
It's possible that I'm not even there.
Because I switch too fast from being so romantic,
To being someone who just doesn't care.

I think the difference is you're not afraid to be broken,
But I am, so I put walls up around myself.
I've only played the game getting fallen for.
I couldn't bear to be the one who fell.

But I can't spend the rest of my life
          hurting
                    everyone
                              else
Maybe it's time to change the way I play

And become the one who fell.