Being a nobody. Being reduced to nothing
before the watching eyes, an unknown figure
behind glasses, that thin shield against sight.
Otherwise blindfolded. Blindsided.
The words are literal, deliberate.
But I am far gone now,
buried in rubbish, a ghost
hoping someone finds meaning in my decay.
Farther away, the strings find me.
They always find me.
They drag me back.
I write to preserve
otherwise a blur throughout the day,
the moments I don't recognize,
mechanism of lonesome built in.
Writing for now. But the rest...
I don't want to think about the rest.
Idle as I share, staring till it wills.
Give out what is not yours.
The heinous nature. The nurture.
Nothing new. Same old me.
Spare me some decency.
How am I to tell?
Other than to write
words they don't come out.
The image is mine.
