I know your argument— just draw.
But to put myself on a piece of paper
is abuse to blank canvases
that lay awaiting someone with soul
to give them a life.
~~~
I know your argument— just play.
And if the world were chock full of children,
we’d play ourselves into blissful slumber,
from a hard Playground’s day.
I understand your point— just look alive.
Yet the insanity my dreams do bring, reveal
a certain poetic state of mind
that I choose to hide behind.
~~~
Please don’t let me bother you
more than I normally do.
But it’s everything, lovely,
that’s eating me inside.
Inadequate? That was defined
when you showed me smiles I knew were lies.
And hellos that covered for good byes.
~~~
And for reasons I don’t know,
It’s become my turn now.
By showing smiles that I know are lies,
greeting others with inflections of goodbyes
giving advice I don’t heed myself…
telling others I’m doing well…
(when really, leave me alone; go to hell)
~~~
but I’m trying.
God, I’m trying.
Mom, I’m trying.
Father, I’m trying.
Lovely, without your guiding misdemeanors,
I am still trying.
