these words are not apologetic;
they don't believe in lying
since words are merely tools
to flavor our blatant insincerity

these pens are not for writing;
rather, they are used for dismantling
the nib from the tube of color
to be sliced up into confetti by knives—
where the ink spills like dark blood

these poems are not for reading;
but for recording your feelings in
riddles that no one else but you can
understand, and relate to—
words coded in more words,
or in between lines with the invisible
ink of the mind and memory

these paragraphs are not sarcastic;
more of subtle reminders to you that
perhaps you should have cared
about me a little bit more than the
dust collecting on the top shelves of
your forgotten library,
while your pocket empties itself
on new volumes of books with
repetitive story plots, my own
diminishing in the sea of your curiosity

- - -