What am I writing about?
My frustration in answering.
When stated face to face everyone
seems disappointed, life, I say.
The world, I say. I’m writing about
answering that fucking question for Christ’s sake.
Because I can’t say love without
some stereotyped view being emitted.
My love is understood, at a slow pace and
is silent. Hallmark cards and wedding bells
and vacations and late night telephone calls
are not love. Love is old. Those things
are more recent than most would believe.
I’m writing about perspective, trying
to keep an honest one. I could churn out
a short story about a stilted lover getting
a text message right now, like snap.
But that concedes to two views I very much
disagree with, so fuck it. I’m starting to
get angry, so I might as well do it, because
if not this’ll turn into more ranting bullshit.