And if I made philosophy rings
And strung them all over my fingers
If I tore a page from their books
And twisted them into barely wearable jewellery
Would the metaphors be enough
To make you read me like you read them?
If I walked by as I spoke
Lines of poetry
You considered to be unpretentious
Would I be beautiful enough for you to see?
If I made up words
That rhymed but only in that third plane of existence only you and I could exist in
Would you love me like you loved these un-existing words?
If I made it rain philosophy
And the clouds were Kierkegaard
Would I be enough?
If I strung along metaphors like you string me along
And I wore them every Tuesday
(I'll rebel for you, honey, I’ll even wear my evening gowns in the morning)
If my voice were as drawling as you desire when I recite poetry that I've written in a bout of intellectualness
would I be the enigma you desire me to be?
I'll ask rhetorical questions that I already know the answers to
Because that's the kind of poetry
You like to read.
But because you revel in rebelliousness,
I'll end my soliloquy with the most pretentious and questionable word of them all, a metaphor, that exists and doesn't exist all at once, that won't reply to your texts at 3 am, they're too busy writing some of that poetry you so desire-