This Is Not A Poem

This is not a poem but I want you to sense my sincerity,    
To sympathies and steer at me.
To be captivated by my prose,    
And to dig the way it flows,      
As I pour out these words like some kind of messed up cognitive therapy.

This is not a poem but I’ve practiced it anyway,      
I’m trying not to wrap my heart away.
Trying to remain raw and honest,      
Just like we always promised.      
But it’s hard,      
And I wonder hard,    
On what to say.

In a poem I would be forthright and concise,      
Idealistic and more than a little contrite.
I’d paint the world as if it were,
Black and white,
Or else an endless,  
Brilliant array of colours just as simplistic.

I’d talk as if the world had a structure and a sense that could be trusted,
As if gods ways were only mysterious in that they could be busted.
I’d sound wise and together,    
Like 25 years had given me an understanding of the world that was worth slamin’ down with some rhymes
I’d make it sound as though I understood,
And it would be a lie. 

This is not a poem so I hope I can be that special kind of complicated honest,    
That only comes after a long night of talking.  
There’s a campfire and a silence,      
A lull in life leaving a gap just wide enough, to be brave.

This is not a poem so I hope I can tell you that I know nothing for sure,
Very very little for maybe,    
And a lot I know nothing about.

This is not a poem so I hope I  can tell you that I do believe there is strength in vulnerability,

But  only in that it exposes my complete ignorance of any useful answer.  
Letting go of the pretense that I have,    
Worked anything out,
That I mean to. 

Shri Ram :)


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