Poem #16

I wonder how much you think you know me.
I mean, according to many, my emotions are an open book,
and I have no talent for telling tall-tales,
even if my life depended on it.
I definitely wouldn’t be able to play poker.
But those are all very obvious, very visual.
Deep down, how well do you know me?

Can you follow the rambling, off-course plummet of my train of thought?
Don’t get distracted by the tracks,
I barely use them anymore.

If we got into a heated argument,
would you know what part of it could drive me to tears?
Or why?
That kind of backstory,
only a select few are privy to such things.

If you feel you know me,
I’d be interested to see what you think you know about me.
And trust me,
I don’t appreciate poking and prying,
whether it be with clummsy bare hands,
or the precision of a surgeon with a scalpel.

One thought on “Poem #16

  1. I liked the contrast between the childlike speech this early section:

    “I mean, according to many, my emotions are an open book,
    and I have no talent for telling tall-tales,
    even if my life depended on it.”

    and the directness of this final section:

    I don’t appreciate poking and prying,
    whether it be with clummsy bare hands,
    or the precision of a surgeon with a scalpel.

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