People Like Me

The stage

This is exactly the kind of poem I try not to write, because my English teacher told me not to, which sentiment I generally agree with. But this was on my mind, and chaotically experimental verse mostly woven from abstractions and lacking structure is how it wanted to come out. So…here we are! It’s called

 Silhouette

People Like Me

people like me are amazing
sometimes
I wish I was one of them
sometimes

they are bold and adventurous
I think
it’s true that people believe that I am
bold
and adventurous
I think
I know
that’s how they see me
I could be
wrong

but I’m not
wrong

I watch
sometimes I watch
this person, who is dynamic, witty
and absolutely full of
life
exudes from him like breath that’s
rich with energy so that others can breathe
it in
and they fill with life, too

I watch this person, I see other
people watching him, watching
me
too, I think, because I want
the life
he has, when other people are watching him

watching him dance

I hate to dance
it makes me feel self
conscious
of the effect I have on people
it makes me look
sometimes
amazing, and I wonder
who is this amazing person
and I wonder
that I know
other people wonder, too

because he is amazing
and I see him
dancing
is the hardest thing in the world for me
when I’m me, not the person
everyone else is watching
me
right now

watching him dance
with words

I live in verse and digital pen
but I
he
dances
dance
on the stage, and looking down
from the audience up at
me
too, I think, I want to be on the stage like
everything thinks
I already am

people like me are amazing
they captivate the room
I watch them
sometimes
I want to be one of them because
I’m not
not really

I’m scared and timid and utterly, endlessly limited
by
the way this isn’t occasional
it’s who I am, all the time
even if it’s not the character
on the stage

people like me are amazing
and it’s both ego
and truth
to say that people envy them
their energy

others think I’m one of them,
but I’m not
it’s just the stage
the people like me
the real ones
I envy them just like everyone else
because they aren’t scared
and I only look
like I’m not

but it does make me wonder
sometimes
I wonder if all of the people like me
who look like me
are like me
so scared of every little thing that is easy for probably every other person why can’t I just do this I’m so useless at everything because of my deficiencies and I’m so
envious of the person on stage
who isn’t them, but wears their face
and they wish
sometimes
that they were one of them
too

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an apple in the bathroom

The Apple

 

 

an apple in the bathroom
a prose poem

 

There’s an apple. In the bathroom. It’s been there for a while.

Months. Maybe years. It can’t possibly be years. It feels like years. Things don’t change.

It hasn’t gone bad. It’s been cold. And apples have that way of lasting forever. Back in the day they used to put them in barrels.

Because they had a lot of barrels. And nothing better to do.

But the apples lasted.

It’s a little pitted. The apple. In the bathroom. It’s not rotten. But it’s a little pitted. I’ve seen apples. In the supermarket.

That were worse.

I won’t eat it. Not even to make applesauce. Because it’s been in the bathroom. For months. Maybe years.

That makes it dirty. Everyone understands that. It’s meaningless. But everyone understands it. I don’t have to explain.

It isn’t rotten. But I wouldn’t eat it. Even if it hadn’t been in the bathroom. It isn’t rotten. But it’s dead.

That happens to apples. They look fine but you bite into them and they have no flavor. Their sisters had flavor. But not this one. It looks fine but its spirit has fled, and took everything about it that matter. Only the pulp remains.

Sometimes I feel like that. Sometimes.

I think about throwing it out. At times I don’t because I know I would miss it. I don’t care about it but I would miss it because it’s in my life. Like when you break a mug that you never really liked. And you have more than enough mugs. But it’s sad because it was yours. Now it’s gone.

Or maybe I don’t throw it out because I don’t notice it. It isn’t anything. Trash turns to clutter turns to scenery. A stain on your wall that’s been there for nine months isn’t a stain. It’s texture. Why throw away a single leaf that’s fallen off a tree in autumn? There are so many more.

But mostly I can’t be bothered. On those certain days,¬†days when I have no flavor, even throwing out an apple is too much. Picking it up and chucking it to the bin is too much. I could do it. But it won’t matter. Why does it matter?

One day I’ll throw it out. Maybe because it finally decided to rot. But probably because I just want to. Some piece of glass will dislodge from my brain and the clutter will turn to mess. I won’t think the apple is interesting anymore. I won’t think it is beautiful just because it is there. Out of place. A goldfish in a slinky factory.

So I will throw it out. And I’ll feel accomplished because it’s been there for months. Maybe years. I’ll feel cleaner. I’ll feel triumphant.

Then, soon, I’ll feel sad. I won’t regret it. Not really. I don’t need an apple. In the bathroom.

But I’ll feel sad. Because it was there. Because it was mine. And then it was gone.