They told me to write what I know;
Well I know how to say "I'm sorry"
so much that the meaning falls through
the bottom of your glass
while I sit on my hands and watch it seep
through the cracks of your front porch.

They said,  "Write about something you love,"
but every time I see a passion in my life,
the grey around me ***** in its color
like a vacuum
and I'm left with empty, open palms
an a house much too clean to call it home.

"Write about how you're feeling."

How can I tell them that
my smile learned how to lie with
my teeth cracking behind it,
and my eyes know how to crinkle when
my smile gives the command?
That this demeanor is a machine
with outputs and executions -
but sometimes even machines break
and they need someone to fix them
because broken hands can't use a wrench
and a smile needs something to feed off of.

So in the end I write about writing,
as meta as it may be -
Because, in a sense, the process
Is all I have to talk about.