Come talk to me.

I candidly tell you
that you are poetry in the making.
You are the facts of poetry.
I am the one who cooks it,
braises it, boils it
into unsuspected cold
temperatures.
                     But You are the pioneers              of this
                     poem
                     transforming every phrase of mine
into tamed grammatically correct
                                      sentences.
Stupid you call me,
smirking at my accent
submerging my wilderness
of a Philosophy Doctor
who refuses to be just that.
              i am the inversion of the law
               the coma in place of the period
i am the dancer
the singer
so erudite no one will understand
a word she says.
                    That's why you exist:
invent my poetry
like children
pretending to be
astronauts.
Create
Raise
a child of your own
with the languid letters at your disposal.
Then, and only then;
come talk to me.