I know this sounds strange,
but I’ve said it anyway.
What now? The act is done.
You’ve read it, and that alone
makes you aware of an in-joke.
The joke’s on the lyrist.
But still, he writes verses.
I know this doesn’t sound any better,
but I’ve written it anyway.
Take it or leave it, the act is done.
Words are symbols, before any meaning.
That’s the spirit—are you leaning or steering?
Would you expect me to toe the lines?
I own my winding lines.
Hey, wanna talk?
You’re not all about the prose, all smiles, I get it.
You may tell me your p – o – – e m s.
Let me fix you a coffee.
Hmm, I should’ve offered it sooner.
Like, this strophe’s opening verse
belongs in the second line, first strophe, right?
You do this poetry thing so well,
I didn’t even know where to start.
Coffee is your cup of tea; mine too.
Remember that poem you wrote about it?
By the way, you’ve written a lot.
Tell me your p – o – – e m s.
State your dilemmas.
I don’t wanna force a friendship,
I just wanna reach you out.
This may be the only way.
Those latest verses… Are you in pain?
Was that your lyrical or physical self?
Were they a cry for help?
Talking’s tough, I get it.
You can write to me instead.
Sure, I’ll pay more attention to your next verses.
You’ve decided to talk. That’s great.
Could we talk in private?
Reveries That I Call Poetry 