I feel underdressed.
My boots are scuffed.
I have no scarf.
My pants are wrinkled.
And my hair is far too short.
But at least I didn’t forget to shave.
That was yet another mistake.
The veteran swagger
That I probably don’t belong here.
I ought to put down my pen.
This is yet another place I’ll not fit in.
Maybe it’s the frames of expectation
The posturing of kings and their mountains.
That old familiar cross-shaped box
Have never fit
The laws of lines and leisure
Leave me wallflower nervous
I want to dance
But my feet won’t move.
Maybe I should have worn my cape.
Maybe I should have put myself together
While on acid
In my grandfather’s closet.
While reeking of patchouli.
It’s not that I’m well adjusted.
I’m just so much of a mess inside
That cleaning up,
Is my way of pretending to be normal.
The blatantly brazen show of being deep.
The carrying of the philosophical full weight
Of life’s every meaning
On every breath.
I don’t have that.
It isn’t me.
I can’t follow every proudly pronounced decree
Can’t be everything you fucking demand of me
Because when I stand back and look in the mirror
I find that I’m not that pretty.
I whip out my pen
Write these poems
The only way I know how not to run with scissors.
To deal with that fucked up man in the mirror.
And despite how stupid I feel
It’s what keeps me here.
I want to dance,
But I’m so awkward
Those I’d call partners
Never want to cabbage patch
Or do the sprinkler
I’m such a fucking mess
But these awkward poems
Somehow keep the beating in my chest
I don’t want to go away.
I’m sorry I don’t know the steps.
But I want to dance
Even though I know its like watching a train wreck.
I don’t care.
And maybe I’ll never fit in.
Maybe kings will keep me from their mountains.
Lofty sense of being hightened.
I swear it’s okay.
But so long as this off beat music in me will play,
I will stay here
And dance like a fool.