Tuesday, May 27, 2014

That's What I Thought

How was I suppose to know what you were doing?
I didn't realize I foiled all your plans.
Because I didn't know about them.
No wonder you have no friends.
Even your most loyal friend was susceptible to me.

And what I did wasn't wrong, because I was ignorant.
Hah! I'm still ignorant.
I'm just beginning to get an idea of how much you went out of your way for me.
If going out of your way means hatching a scheme.
You might be smarter than me, but you don't have what I have.

And you don't even communicate with me.
But you get angry when I talk to someone else?
You are ridiculous.
Who are you?
I can't even be angry at you, because you don't understand anything.

The only way I find out I've done something wrong is by the waves of anxiety that sweep over me.
Ahhh, at least once a week I feel so insecure and unstable I don't know what to do.
On the surface I may still appear fine.
But there is a fiasco going on somewhere at any given time.
And everyone decided I should be a writer?!?

A fiasco.
"Write the truth," they say.
Unless it offends someone you know.
Then don't write it.
Keep it to yourself.

Sometimes I forget when or when not to write the truth.
Write the truth, just leave some of the truth out.
Don't write the whole truth.
But what truth you write should be the truth.
Isn't that the truth?

And pretty soon even the word "truth" looks like some foreign term.
I wonder if there are people somewhere saying, "Write only lies."
And I'm thinking, maybe if I take like twelve more herbal anxiety pills I'll feel better?
Nah, take all the pills you want, but when you cross the wrong person you'll know.
I must be in trouble for something no one could possibly know about.

I'm in trouble for sitting alone in my room writing?
Writing something no one else should be able to see?
I truly believe that's what I did wrong.
And if I'm not in trouble, then why am I so scared?
I'm scared of eating an omelet?

I'm not scared of eating an omelet.
People be like, "Call me when you are having a hard time."
I be like, "That solved nothing."
Well, head petting worked.
But it's hard to find someone who's available at the drop of a hat to pet your head for hours.

No, no, there is no solution.
I have "interesting" taste in men?
Currently I have no taste in anyone.
And anyone who has a taste for me is suspect.
From now on I vow to trust only people who avoid me.

The more I write the harder it is to understand a single thing I say.
A poem about omelets and irrational fear?
This must be "modern" poetry.
Who cares?
I wrote a long poem about rainbows yesterday.

I wonder if somewhere out there in the ether someone is amused.
I can see him now, a young man I don't know.
And he's smiling to himself while I berate myself.
Maybe he thinks I'm funny.
That's the person I like right now, the remote one.

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