Edit.

Edit.

Self Edit.

Can’t say that.

Can’t write that.

Can’t seem to keep my heart in my chest.

Every time I let it out though

It gets me in trouble you know.

Always saying the wrong things

At the wrong times.

Saying words that pull at strings

And making all the wrong rhymes.

And they say they want honesty

And the critics they do.

But friends and family don’t

Cause it’s them who always knew.

Knew the man you wrote the song for

And held your hand while you cried.

Who worried about the way you saw

What happened when your grandmother died.

Knew what it meant when you said those words

Words that used to make you run and hide.

And I hope no one reads this and says

This ones the one she wrote for me.

Because its not about the singular events

But the way I view the world, the way I see.

Do you think me that great of a poet to write

A poem from a singular event?

I wish you were right.

But I haven’t gone to that extent.

These words are more than now

They stretch back into my past

I contemplate them for hours on end

And it takes time for them to last.

Last in the minds of my readers,

Last in the mind of my writers

Last in the mind of myself,

Last in the mind at all.

So do not think this poem,

Pointed and direct.

If you think it’s about you

Trust me its not.

Carly tried her best but the song she wrote

Really was about who she didn’t want to write about anymore.

But for me it really isn’t. You can go ahead and quote

Unless I tell you directly, do not assume this poem is anything more

Than the half coherent ramblings

Of someone who is figuring out living.

Don’t read into my words.

They have been, and for some time, they will be brewing.