Dear John: I Hate Paper Cuts
I am writing this alive and with a fever,
'cause I needs to sweat out the virus
and breathe calmly without choking, for once.
I am writing this and hoping that its meaning,
my meaning, THE meaning
will mean something to you now.
That's why all poets and madmen
scrape together enough bitterness
to address their anti-love-letters to ' you'-
as though the reader, any random lover,
is the one intended to be pinpointed, blacklisted then destroyed.
You know them, the ones always crying,
asking for spare sense to make change...
' I didn't see this coming'
It's so sad how some people
are just innocent bystanders
reading the morning newspaper-
when they just happen to look up to see
reality smacking them upside the head.
'you've got the wrong man'
only because they right man's dead.
So, I won't say I love you 'cause
those words mean more than something now-
and I won't say I miss you 'cause
it gets lost in translation.
But if I know you like I think I knew you,
you'll be reading between the lines right about now,
sipping your morning coffee and thinking
of something far more important than the sound of my voice.
But I know you'll read this 'cause
there are a million other fish in the sea
and everyone of them are titled ' you'
and they act and look just like 'you'
I hope you don't mind
I can't quite bring myself to address this to your name.