You don’t get to tell me how I feel

Talk

You don’t get endless moments 
speaking of your feelings,
the shortcomings of others 
oh so unappealing
the burden of your past ,
you’re so misunderstood
and tell me what  you’re yelling 
is for the greater good

Talk

You don’t get to tell me 
that I never speak a word,
that my point is undeserved 
my timing is bad
that my style is unproductive 
I invest too much in mad,
not to be offended by your tone, 
the jabbing finger
and tell me I’m a fool, 
letting old feelings linger

Talk

You don’t get to shove me 
with all your many words,
then give me  your own timeline
for when I can be heard,
stand up on your platform
in lengthy dissertation
expecting me look at this 
as a thing called conversation

Talk

You don’t get to rob yourself 
of what I have to say,
stomp on all my thoughts 
before they see the light of day
haul around assumptions 
of what that might have been
and accuse me in the end 
of no participation.
it’s not a competition 
that one of us must win.

You don’t get to tell me how I feel