during the formative years. pretending i care,
but never bothering
to really think of it.
so vibrate particles,
itch-itch scratch that widow's peak;
twisted with the stick of gauze
to my fingertips,
crunching that elegance of a tulip's neck.
for the sake of introspection.
i now have no choice but to spill my guts.
(don't you follow suit, honey.)
there isn't a sound to disturb my silence,
without the bustling of people
being outdoors in earshot.
i am alone. i am happy.
i've got free-rule over an unnamed kingdom
made of pretend-pretend on my hands.
i imagine remarks on my efforts toward
supporting the cause-
"oh, chicken-shit, when you are all alone, you create
the best. you say beautiful
things. i am just so impressed."
i don't believe you, but i care that
you say so.
which, alongside, you
minimize your world,
out of its attic,
decomposing colony- an obsession
dragged into it, general relativity.