What It's Not

 

Can't afford to lose anymore.

What's it gonna take?

Can't afford to bruise anymore.

Are you gonna break

apart this time

when it doesn't rhyme


Don't want to repress anymore,

want to wear the dress anymore.

The part, you better play

when it's not okay

to be yourself.

Not acceptable,

sit on the shelf


like the doll that you are.

Look at her, so pretty, too.

Why? she bats her eyes at you.

Don't you want to hear her coo?

She's a lovely little thing,

so it'd be a shock to see

her act the way she be

not so graceful, frankly.


Tired of this tone of voice

in which you gotta sing,

tired of this charming way

that you can sweetly bring,

tired of not knowing what to say

unless it rings.


Memory is running

constantly and constantly.

No one would believe

that what you say feels like a scene,

for you act it so well

secretly, lost in the meaning...


You can never visit

unless you know they're coming,

wanting to connect,

but don't know how. Unlike a kid,

you must prepare all you say

by how you know they did.


Sometimes you're a great host.

You intrigue your guest with style,

but you're left exhausted,

wanting alone time for a while


processing and cycling

the meaning of the words you'd said,

which seemed endearing at the time

but now won't leave your head.


There's always things you want to say

but then forget about.

You get stuck on just one thing,

and that's all that keeps coming out.


You wonder after one leaves,

were you nothing but boring?

You wonder to yourself if 

the impression was annoying.


They and yourself hold it to you.

What has produced these un-faulted “faults?”

It logically feels convoluted,

forgetting about gestalt.


So where is the slack cut

in this neurological challenge,

appearing as what it's not

when on emotions it takes revenge?


2012


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supporting the book via purchase or donating to my Go Fund Me

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