I try not to think of my mother.
Or the suburbs.
Or the fact
That I haven't slept in three days.
But when I hold the flimsy corners
Of the plastic bag,
I skip like a school boy
Carrying his favorite sack lunch
Down the block.
I sit beside the peeling wallpaper
Of my bedroom.
Fantasize about my
10yr High School Reunion.
All those familiar faces.
Decorated in growing wrinkles.
Sharing stories about
Newborns,
New insurance,
New incomes,
New houses.
When it's my turn,
Lower my eyes to the floor.
Measure my accomplishments
To theirs.
Speaking about:
“Well I died of a heroin overdose.
That's right. I survived death! ”
Strut around the ballroom,
As if I were a peacock
Fanning their rainbow wings.
To finish it with:
“Yeah, I am also a writer.
Primarily a poet. I have been featured
In some magazines. I have a book out.”
To which someone responds:
“You're a poet? I had to read that crap
In college. So, you're like Robert Frost? ”
Let me end the fantasy there.
Because my mind smells like permanent marker.
I'd rather not put these thoughts in ink.
A.j. Binash
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-know-i-am-a-loser-i-just-don-t-care/
