One time I talked to a stone wall,

and it was just like talking to you.

Except

without the interuptions.

I say,

Hey, Wall, what's happenin'?

You think you're trapping me,

but I'm the only force to contain this pain,

or set it free with my voice.

I hate poetry,

so you can’t say

it’s good for me.

I won’t indulge you

with such a deluge

of my soul.

You addict!

It’s powerful stuff,

and I think you’ve had enough!

 

For about two seconds,

I flirted with hashtags,

screen-printed grocery bags,

buttons on my backpack,

and the weekly open mic night downtown.

I was a kid with a crush

on Rhymes and Romanticism.

It was never serious,

just a curious idea that

one language says

what we all feel.

But that can’t be.

It’s something crazy

that pages of phrases

can squeeze your heart so hard,

while you’re still trying

to wrap your head around it.

I never got ahead,

you know,

the situation is dire,

people are dying,

Suddenly, I was a liar,

a hypocrite

wearing the pants

but the shoes don’t fit.

It’s been years

since I thought of myself as a crier.

 

The wall just stares at me.

There's no real threat,

but I feel near death,

like I'm falling down stairs.

Alright,

Ths could just be anxiety,

but who cares?

The way I feel

makes this real

if it’s PMS or the Kool-Aid I drink.

At this point,

I'm allergic to criticism, I think.

 

 

Now Wall makes a suggestion,

and I say,

NO, I won't write poetry,

just to get it out,

make a buck,

feel unstuck,

I won't write 'cause you want me to!

Yeah, I'm a complainer,

and I'm lazy, too.

Well, don't worry,

*no one* knows what to do.

I don't come to you to pontificate,

I just won't self-ameliorate:

I need money,

I need patience.

The only reason we talk

is because walls are denser than fence

and I need a defense.

You don't get me,

no offense.

I wish I were brave.

While you see me digging my own grave,

I just need a hole to shout into.

I'll dig until I strike

flint to spade.

It's a spark I'm trying to create,

but I'm made of delays.

 

Now Wall says,

I hear you,

and I say,

No! No way you get me!

You're a wall, the worst obstacle of all.

I can't see any future beyond you

because I'm not that tall.

Meanwhile you're made big,

brick by brick,

and I'm so mad, I want to

pick you apart,

bring you back to the start,

when you were clay.

Wall, you're half the echo chamber

that dampens my cries,

reflects other people's lies.

Still the other half,

is the glass ceiling,

expectation,

the feeling

that at the bottom of the stairs

is a pool of regret,

that I'm a fretting loser and not you, Wall.

I'm not you at all.

 

I say,

I wish I was immovable,

I don't want to deal with these feels,

I'm not able to.

Once I tried to write a happy verse;

it came out perverse.

When I'm not staring at Wall,

I'm watching TV

or some other distraction.

It takes off the edge,

just a fraction,

but I can't stand the news,

can't sit by it, neither.

I'll throw an adult fit:

I wish I were a wall!

You don't get the last word,

but I'm used to not being heard.

Because I'm not speaking,

I'm silently freaking out.

 

Wall, we're unknown,

but at least we won't write scary poems.