A Poem For People Who Aren't Into Reading Poetry

To be clear... I’m not asking you to love this. I’m asking for you to meet me where the words land hard— where syllables ignite like the last coin burning a hole into your palm— spent, but still cursing what you could’ve claimed, what you’re still pretending to chase. I know... you didn’t ask for this. The ink staining your thoughts like the memory of a tattoo gone bad— the weight of metaphor, that friend who never knows when its time to leave even after you’ve abruptly shut the door. I’m not here to make you believe in anything more than the obvious: the moon still shows up unabated, the sun fades to an overhyped memory, the world keeps spinning because who needs a break, right? However... allow me to offer a word, dew tap-dancing sweetness against humbled slabs of rubble— the way it burns like that spliff smoked in the backseat of a car with no apparent destination. You don’t need to love it— I’m not asking for your devotion just your pause, your ear tilted toward the rung of what might mean more than either of us can say. I’m not here to sell you on the holiness of rhyme, or to argue that a line can be both prayer and weapon— something churning in your soul as you disappear into a crowd too loud to notice. I only want you to see how language, this worn & battered thing is the closest we’ll ever get to a mystery worth chasing. It won’t show up in the ding of a text, or tucked between constant notifications buzzing like mosquitoes too thirsty to leave you alone. This talk won’t beg your consent only your presence. It hangs in the air like incense refusing to dissipate from sheer obstinacy. You’ve spent too long bulldozing its remains, lost in the whirl of your own doubts. So let’s meet— in the space where words aren’t source guides or Google maps but the body’s struggle to speak; the pulse you feel in your fingertips blushing on the page. I don’t need you to love this, but I can show you how a sentence becomes a river you never meant to cross but can’t seem to stop wading through— how it pulls you under and still, somehow manages to let you breathe.