I Mean Sure, If You Really Want
Are you serious? You really want to read it?
I guess the question caught me by surprise.
Just know that I press this ratty notebook
to my chest out of shock and not fear.
Well, mostly not fear but just a bit of fear.
It’s hard to hand over my pale green notebook
Which is scuffed slightly but loved all the same
And place it into your careful and kind hands,
without snatching it back from you.
I don’t think that would go over well.
Your smile is wide but maybe a bit strained,
And I feel the need to hang over your shoulder,
Clawing like a hunched and boney bird of prey.
But I mean, sure, if you’re really serious, I guess.
I'll just be over there trying to calm myself.
It’s just poetry and not even good poetry.
It mostly sounds like my inner ramblings,
discombobulated and random
and what was I even talking about again?
Oh right the poetry, how could I forget?
And if you read it, what if you hate it?
They’re just words, but they’re not just words.
They’re actually my entire heart and soul
Pressed down in messy graphite scrawl.
I don’t even check for spelling erors.
So if you hate it that’s totally cool,
Except I’ll probably die a little bit,
but only internally, so you’re good.
And that’s not as bad as if you lie.
Why is your face scrunching?
Your face is contorting like some
kind of confused Renaissance painting,
and I’m kind of losing my cool over here.
Oh wait! Was that a smile there?
You like it? You really like it?