Squeeze

I'm too much of a realist
For poetry
-just some of it-
Not poets's poetry
Just mine
I can only lie
And fake it
So much
And then I gently
Place my hand on it
(on the paper, you see)
And squeeze-
This act is calming in its casualness
And crushing
Hence - gratifying
I want to right now
To this that should not exist
I don't like bullshit
Even if it's beautiful

It is windy outside
Inside - I am thirsty and restless