and the reason is not as poetic
as people want it to be,
not like I’ve got a cracked heart – despite
the things I shout into microphones,
not yearning for ghosts of
Men From The Past to come crawling back.
this lonely poet thing I’ve crafted – you know,
I might just want someone
to call me on my bullshit
want someone to ask about my calloused hands
and why disinterest swarms me
as soon as someone wants to
get to know me.
it’s not about building up walls,
it’s about not liking anyone enough
to invite them inside for coffee.
these days, I fear mediocrity
will show up to drinks
and I’ll have to entertain it
for two hours.
these days, I am far more scared
of being disappointed
than I am of being hurt.