• Why can't it be you
    sitting there
    in your bedroom
    reading my journal,
    your mind overflowing with
    prose of seemingly poetic genius?
    Why can't I be the one who wrote, with such passion,
    an account of my days
    filled with dread and love and
    confusion?

    It just isn't so.
    No, for now, I am stuck in my
    bedroom, writing an account
    of my single day filled with
    poetic lust.
    Your stained-glass words tower over my humble abode, mud and brick
    with a tiny window,
    just large enough to see
    you whistling as you go on your way,
    and just small enough to hide me in
    plain sight as I
    write furiously within my
    four walls.