You learned how I have a taken a liking to poems
and writing and anything that drips with art and so you
asked me to write you one.
I knew you didn’t like those poems that I’ve showed
you nor did you understand my passion for writing and
my love for fiction

So I asked you why

You waved it off and told me to just do it; as if words
were easy to tame, as if my mind flows as quickly as
the ink of my pen, as if it just happens in the moment
I wanted them to

I told you that it takes time and you can’t force words
out and ***** them all over the page and you got mad
and swore I’m taking this all too seriously

Maybe I did,
maybe you just didn't understand

You were convinced that you were some masterpiece,
and you wanted me to write about you--not because you
love me or you appreciated my works and my words and
my fingers, but you love yourself too much
But you can’t write
So u forced me.

Well, here it is, *******.