The Old Days

The evidence is everywhere
that everyone else has a
different story to tell and
I’m not trying to say that mine
is the saddest of all and that it
didn’t have some bright shining
moments stuck in there but there’s
a difference between being there
and being present and while I should
be too tired to be angry, I’m still
too innocent not to be hurt but
I’m neglected enough to be
belligerent about the situation.

All I wanted in the beginning
was what was expected,
made even more fervent
by what I came to realize
was expected of me.
Lacking that I have found
ways to sew up the sadness
and really, I’ve done just fine.

My expectations now are
lower than even you
seem to find acceptable
and I can’t help but wonder how
you continue to disappoint me
when all I want from you is
nothing in the first place?

Someone asked me today
how I would feel if you were gone;
didn’t I feel any responsibility to
repair or construct
a feeble resolution to
this geographic nuisance –
and I just laughed because
after all this time, what else is there?

Your attempts at making your
self-pity pervasive failed long ago
but I can see you won’t stop clinging
to it the way you should have clinged to
the warmth that was right in front of you.

I hope that the view is acceptable
from the cheap seats and that
your loneliness can provide you
some kind of company but the
world is a big and scary place
I mean to conquer, no matter
how ill prepared I may be,
and you are not invited.


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