For You

I can be pretentious too.
I can presume you know
Of plastic bags and day old dreams.

I can make up images
Of blood strewn sandals
Cracked like chapped lips
On lovers' hips
That V into despair.

I cannot comply with treaties
Of demands entailing
chaos.
i try try try
but i
am Ordered To Repent Of My
ialtiniby
for
sim
pli
ci
ty

I would not presume
to make you fear
my ages past
as so many others would
consume
you
in their regretful
mutterings
of fathers
lovers
holy ghosts
and hosts of existential self.

Poetry is a selfish thing.
Of the self
By the self
For the self
For your self
About your self
Or else it's not

for you