It's only
in the lines of poetry
where I stand to be understood.
I may cry and protest
in a world full of others
who think they know what they should,
but my wants
fall on the deaf ears
of gods who have abandoned
the battles which modern men
have taken up against their fears.
Bread rises in the oven
as I watch it from afar,
sleepily laying in the kitchen.
When you know that you're a star,
you can make anywhere a place to sleep,
even if your parents
tell you that
the floor is too dirty-
For who's fault is that,
either not exerting oneself to clean,
or encouraging a household that's a team-
A team that makes things shiny and sleek.
We've forgotten that we
are all a team
on this rocky
ball of blood and teeth.
Please,
hold me and, maybe,
pretend that you like me
for just another minute.
Pretend that you aren't snappy,
and that we get along-
That our romance
wasn't doomed from the start
by some ephemeral, impossible,
yet undeniable entity
called Chemistry.
Pretend that you see me
as human being, too,
who wants what you do.
YOU ARE READING
This Gray, Unfortunate Place (2)
PoetryPoetry that straggles the heartstrings. (You don't have to have read the first book.)
