Your poetry is a lot better than mine
Professional
Clean
Passion-filled

I write.
I wrote?
I write.
From time to time.
But not like you.
I've seen your work.

Verbs brighter than a Sunday comic strip
Reminds me of playing dominos with my sisters after church
Play-dough sculptures
My hands can create anything, Mom!

But what now?
Broken hands
Broken mind
Broken poetry

I write.
But it's all ****.
It's been **** for months.
Not a **** analogy to come to mind
Except cliche darkness and awkward fumbling

So when you take my hand in yours
And kiss my forehead
And ask me if I write
I say
No

Bubbling up inside me
Fizzy cola
Beach breeze
One hand on my knee
The other dangling a cigarette
Lost traveler
No home
Will you stay here with me
I'd like eternity
But one night will do
Free of charge
Except my sanity
And while you're at it
Leave a tip
The broken ends of what I was
Warm bubbles
Champagne lover
Twirling and twirling under the unforgiving stars
Better than my favorite dream
But how quickly, my dear,
Dreams become nightmares
Broken glass
Echoing screams
Twirling and twirling
Come and rest with me
Leave your bags
I've always got room
For maybe one more
But this one is the right one
I know it for sure
Pure white underwear
The darkest intentions
And dusty sheets
And a brown eyed boy
With a passion for nothing in the world
Except a ****** drink
And me
Or so I tell myself
As I lie awake and listen to the sound of his breathing
Warm body
Greedy hands
Fizzy cola
Fizzy cola