Ripped pages lie on the ground,
My writing desk, they surround.
Broken ideas, wrong thoughts-
Scattered like broken pots.
They are the fodder of my mind.
The chaff of my kind
Born to share and write,
Born to hide in plain sight.
I am always watching others,
Noting their steps and stutters.
Will they notice mine?
Or do I cover them fine?
I offer my wrists for you to see.
Study them as your own, for me.
Call out my contradictions
Make me face them as if in rehab
Give me grace and truth,
Sit me down, in a corner booth.
Listen to my sedimentary whine,
Until 2am and we resign.
I will call you the next day,
And share the same stories.
This time, with more details,
And more lies