the air in my lungs

or the gas in my car.

Fuck your poems with a plot.

If you think I’m wrong,

you’re thinking a lot.

But make me think a day or two,

make me feel

what you’re feeling too.

Take your poems and paint them red;

lipstick and wine

all over the bed.

Kick me in the goddamn gut.

Tell me that

your doors are shut.

Write your poems only in blood.

Drag my face

through the mud.

Poems are bullshit unless they are

only near,

only far.