Saturday, 31 December 2016

The Poet has an Existential Crisis


I’m special. I’m chosen.
I’m special. I’m chosen.

I’m chosen. I’m special.
I’m worthless.

I’m what?

I’m what? I’m forgotten.
I’m certain of one thing.

Forgotten. For certain.
Forgotten.
                  A lot.

I’m lucky. I’m grateful.
I’m grateful. I’m lucky.

I’m lucky. I’m grateful.
For what I have lost.

The truth is a lie.
Tied up with some lies.

The truth is tied up.
I    t’                    sa     
              G     
o
                           r                          
   d                            i
          a
                                              n
knot.

Look at it this way.
Look at it this way.
I am what I am:

I am (not).

Nobody’s blameless.
I’m grateful. I hate you.
I’m nobody’s son.
I’m chosen. I’m nameless.

I hate this. I’m special.
I’m lucky. I’m worthless.
Look at it this way:
I’m nobody’s son.

I’m certain. I’m special.
I’m certain of nothing.
I’m nothing for certain.
I’m lied to.
                    A lot.

I’m chosen. I hate this.
I’m hateful. Forgotten.
Look at it this way:
I’m lost in the lies.

I am what I am.
I’m nobody’s son.
I’m certain. I’m worthless.
I’m nobody’s choice.

I’m special. I’m chosen.
I’m grateful. I’m not
I’m nobody’s truth.
I’m the son they forgot.

Envoi:
And I’m me. But I’m not.
And I’m me. But I’m not.
And I’m me. And I’m me.
And I’m me.
                      But I’m not.

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