my poems and thoughts

A story.

  Sometimes I feel as if my thoughts aren't mine. Most of the time actually.
Like they're someone else's, and occasionally they'll scream them at me.
But of course since they're not mine, I don't fully understand them. Like they scream, but those screams get lost somewhere in translation. And again, I'm left unsure and confused. Then I go and ignore them because in this story I'm kind of an asshole.

Then they scream again a week later at me, and I try to listen, but again, I let them go. I then ignore and move on. A routine. But those thoughts of theirs, they stay with me, but they stay in the back seat. Sometimes they stay in the trunk. I never mention them. They refuse to sit up front. I don't know why though. Although I want to know. I'd be honored to.
But in this story, I'm that character who you scream "prick" at for making stupid decisions and ignoring the main character. Leaving them on read daily. Ignoring them in public.

I then continue this because I'm clueless. And those thoughts scream at me daily now, but I'm in a glass box at this point. I can't really hear them well either now. It's really muffled in here . Must be sound proofed.

  Now you're screaming at me from in front of your source of entertainment. I can see a little bit. It's quite foggy from in here though, inside this box.  I'm realizing it's actually pretty small now that I look around.  It somehow fits perfectly with my claustrophobia. I now start to realize some friends are here. Far in the shadows though. I can only make out their outlines, but I know them.

  Back in your world, you're hoping that I finally get my shit together, and ask the main character out.  But I'm busy. Drowning that is, glass closing in around me. You don't know that. At this point, I'm never on screen. Never present except for small glances. Here, I know I'll be ok though. I am ok. Just unsure and confused, but ok.