I do not, and I will not write for you.
(That way I will be content)
Instead I try to write about art
How do these colors make me feel?
Or that small, intricate detail which becomes:
Beautiful due to your consideration.
It seems as though it is always
One attempt or the other
So instead I try to write about that endless tunnel of water
In which I drown comfortably, consciously, continuously
All of these things, i'll try to write about instead,
But poetry is my sickness
I panick, and I cough, choking on something that isn't there.
I look away quickly as I resurface and remember:
I do, and I will write for you
(That way I will be content)