Going Through Something
We’re all going through something.
Half dead trees with hollowed out limbs
Bracing for the gale force winds.
Flowers are sweltering in the sun
While, later on, their roots
Get washed away in the deluge.
Some of us are perpetually waking up
While others fail to fall asleep.
We’re all going through something unique.
We’re all on permanent spin cycle,
Wracked and wet and wrinkled,
Trying to pass our laundered selves off as
Lightly starched, ironed shirts.
I counter your grievous losses
With a litany of frivolous obsessions.
Your anger and her mystification
Are just enough to balance
My deflective prevarications.
Your here and now present must level up
With my understanding of the past
Minus the mourning of an unchosen future.
Everything I eat ends up
Dander in my own pillow.
My lonesome childhood laments
Get remitted in the rush I still get
When the gallbladder is finally out.
Every time I feel good about myself
I’m soon reminded by the face
Of the impostor I chose to become
That I never stood a chance
Of being anybody, any good.