I am not angry

he says it's too early for that,
he denotes imperfection, fallibility.
Maybe a word not suited to a poem
but I'll write it anyways

My poetry is prose

Maybe the words are too simple,
like everyday wear for you
not classy, not intricate
but your arrogance
fuels my desire to write this.

You can't tell me that opression needs long
words. It only needs one.
Lies are they that need reservoirs of words
twist them and turn them and bake
at 475 degrees.

I don't know what I'm doing
says he.

And I'm set on away while
two friends converse alone.
My fault, my hurt, my eyes
are stokes. He
tells me he needs help
but I need it more,
and he loves on
in his ignorance of me.

Why does love beat everyone down.
Today I tried to spot them in the clouds

maybe it'll happen one day
and when I am asked what I see, what shapes.
I'll say: I see light.