Sitting in front of the computer for the last 20 minutes,
Rehearsing and then rejecting posts.
I do not want to be a broken record
Or a collection of memes and one-liners.
Is there a purpose to my life, a meaning for my suffering?
Will anyone remember me, when I am gone?
Like a well-oiled scratch,
I pick at this virtual scab,
Hoping it distracts me from the persistent sores
Up and down my body...
I do not want to brag, I do not want to puff myself up.
I would hope that what I share is worth some joy
To someone - to lift them from their despair.
Yet, I post about sadness and morbidity,
And the dark clouds upon my brain,
Fostered by "recovery meetings", again and again?
I hear the praise from my supervisor
After returning to tutoring,
And I hear the deafening silence...
Makes me think I'm pressed flat
Into a shallow math man,
Like how they cast me as the Count,
At a Christmas party, way long ago.
Could it help? Would it help?
If I was more vocal
About what I like and dislike
All about me, in this mixed-up world?
Should I rattle my saber and shake my fist
And take some sides, just to try to fit in?
another pause, wondering where I'm going...
another sigh, wondering where I've been...
Do I even pick up all my broken pieces,
When I suspect I'll just fall of the wall, again?