What It Is, I Can't Say

Trying to write is difficult.
No, writing is the challenge.
'Trying' is immeasurable.
Music is a distraction.

The porch is a place I occupy frequently;
it's the 'inside' outside
or an 'outside' inside.
Either way it's an oxymoron,
a contradiction
So I'm most comfortable there.
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I waited
and you asked for my number.
Then you gave me one to wait in line with.
Not one.

And now my mind is violating you--
it's on you constantly.
It can't take a hint
won't take a hike.
It loiters in the corner
leering at you;
sick thoughts.

You've exceeded expectations so far
but I'm an experienced woman.
I've already scheduled my appointment
with disappointment.
A good doctor.
Prescribes the proper medication,
the proper meditation:

I'm maintaning low hope-levels.
I don't want to get over-excited.
It's bad for the heart;
makes me sick.
That's what my doctor keeps telling me anyhow.
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I have other things to do.
That I should be doing.
Not worrying about all the "you's"
in all of my poetry.