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.
When entertaining the idea of poetry slams with friends.
I feel as though I have to mention this poem is older, and my state of mind is much lighter than these more manic times.