It Just Sort of Happens

I
I’ve brushed up against my mortal self once too often these past few days
In dreams I am tortured by misunderstandings that rat-tail whip me out of my sleep
The rusty nail embedded in my foot is my punishment for believing too much in my past
A distraction that I no longer can afford
My fingertips should burn and my lumbrical muscles should ache – not today
Now I am trying to discover which is worse: fear or curiosity
Now I am trying to discover which is worse: vulnerability or isolation
Now I am trying to discover if my mortal self can continue to defy the odds

II
I wish I had a soul to give away or at least to send out for repairs
The one that I have now slipped out of my sweaty unmade bed and fell to the floor
I tripped over it on my way to the telephone and stubbed my toe
The blood is going to ruin my socks
But I have to put on my too tight sport shoes and prepare for a meeting with my future
I still wish that there were two of me
But I don’t know what I’d do with my reflection

III
I never wanted to be a poet
It just sort of happened
Nobody ever wants to be a poet
It just sort of happens
People always tell me
“I used to write poetry…
When I was young…”
They always get embarrassed
They slink back into their television worlds
While I crawl back into the safety of my ratty notebooks
It’s safer that way – no one gets hurt
But you have to believe
I never wanted to be a poet

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