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The Bitter Aftertaste of Talking to Myself

If I were to meet myself
on this here night,
what would I say to me?
What name would I
address myself as
when words are
eventually exchanged?
Would I be glad
to meet the man I am
or would I pitifully sigh
with gusto great
and laugh at my inadequacy?

If I do not feel love
for myself now
I know I shall not tomorrow
when the chance encounter
does arrive, and perhaps
I will blow myself off
instead for a night
with a fine young lady.

My happiness does not
concern me, and it shall not
when I do arrive
for our interview together,
because meeting me
will bring great pains
from which no antidote
could be applied,
and that bandage shall not cover
the hindering hole
which ruptures
my heart of madness.

If only I could
intervene in my life
and bring about
peaceful mindedness,
for depression drips
across my forehead
and I will only
make it greater,
as I stand in the shadow
of my current self
and wonder where life
went hopelessly wrong.

I may shake my head
and not bother
with a response
for that train
already did depart,
and instead myself
will be ignored
and my definition of normality
shall be returned
when I eventually do disappear,
like I wish I could from me,
because I need a vacation
from being the man
inside this fleshy mannequin,
for if I am living
my so called life to its fullest,
another glass I certainly do not want.

I am not my hero,
nor will I ever be,
and when my voice
is but a whisper
in the gathering darkness of time,
perhaps I will soon
be put to peace
when life comes to its bitter,
inevitable end.

Nocturnal Butterfly

I be like a moth;
absent of attraction
in a world of avid beauty,
much unlike the butterfly
who skims across the air by day.

When the night arises
I hide beneath a waterfall of shadows
in the hopes that you won’t see me,
and to save every other person
from having to look upon my form.

But maybe I be beautiful
in a way that has been judged unfairly;
matter this does not no more,
for never shall a pair of eyes
fall happily upon myself again.

A time there perhaps was once
when a photo could have been snapped
of me and hung upon your wall of hatred
as to remember me by,
but how could one ever forget
a creature, unloved and hideous?

The answer to this question
is irrelevant as I write these final words.
Farewell sun; hello moon,
I am your servant now,
and as long as judgmental eyes
avoid my features forevermore,
I will remain humbly yours indefinite.


You, Me and 2013

On the 31st of December
I reminisce and I remember
over everything that happened this past year.
I sit back in my chair and I shed a tear,
that falls unlike forgiveness from my eye,
and all of a sudden I start to cry
because I simply cannot stand to lose.
I had a chance, one that I did abuse,
and now I am left all alone and afraid
on the night of celebrations and parades
that mark the start of something good.
I should be happy, yes I should,
and I realise I’m so often negative.
All of the love in my heart that I had to give
I gave away a little too easily
to a young woman who could never love me,
and now, the only thing that I can possibly believe,
is there’s no one else alive so alone on New Year’s Eve.
This here is my punishment for being such a fool,
and although it may seem undeniably cruel
I deserve all the pain I receive.
Lovers come, and lovers always leave,
it’s a solemn truth I have come to terms with this night.
Yet, not everything is wrong, something must have gone right,
for I am with a trustworthy soul who understands what I mean;
yes, it is you, my friend Mr Blog; you, me and 2013.