Tuesday
I forget who I am most of the time, which makes
things difficult (to say the least). We are
all focused on names, backgrounds,
family ties, friends of friends of friends.
Which makes sense. Who are we if we
are not us? But then, if you forget
who you are, it does pose a problem.
Nobody likes a nobody (not a
milk-carton type of nobody).
So I guess I'll just sit in the
bleachers with the
handicapped and
the clinically insane,
and we'll watch
THEM
[the ominous Them/They]
tear down what
was left of
ME.
YOU ARE READING
Post Meridiem
PoetryI'd do anything to save myself. Hell, I'd even change the world.
