untitled, in response

You have a right to your poetic justice,
But you see some things are sacred. While you’re profiting off of being recognized as some lyrical militant, wide-eyed girls wishing your poem was about them, the one you wrote about feels like you just capitalized on her.
Are you that self-righteous to assume she would want to be your muse?
This isn’t about censorship, it’s about respect.
While you copyright your life, their assumptions burn her deep.
Most girls may be delighted, but she’s not most, or does your self-perceived social ineptness exempt you from acknowledging that?
I hope your artistic expression of words on a page keep you sane, I hope people find comfort in them, I hope your friends are touched by the beautiful articulation of the human soul.
Because to her, they are only words on a page. She didn’t live those words, those stanzas you created do not define any moment in time for her.
So, while you’re swooning the crowd at a reading, plastering imagery in a show-do-not- tell manner on a wall for everyone to see, that girl in your poem thinks the showcase is egotistical.
You see, she read it after someone already picked his favorite line. A line about her. A line that lost its meaning because someone read it three times in admiration.
You’re right, it is your life. And as a man, as an American, commodity comes in every form.
Hey, Mr. Salesman, sell your own life and stop selling hers.

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H_2

it rained on her wedding day. we would have danced in puddles in our finest clothes for her.

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