I've plenty. You're just a button
I like to push sometimes- you're no less for it, but
I reassure myself that
am the pusher of the button, and
Shall not be pushed.
Blatantly I stretch to bullshit- you don't
Understand the words I've made, and you
Smile your charmed smile, and I
Become something less (read: consumed),
Just a little less than what you can hold in your hand.
I'm embittered, and for tonight the effort of shininess
Displaced by a poet half a world away, for,
If we make feelings just inklings,
Nothing ever shall be done
Nothing shall ever be done.
You fool, you've put a something in the way of a gap
You've chosen wrong
You should not have gone home.
Unless home had been
What you made me. And what have you made of me?