Alone

First foray into slam poetry. Kinda like it.

Alone.

Are you alone?

So am I.

But I’m not gonna let you know,

because I’m afraid that if I let down my guard for even one second,

that maybe--JUST MAYBE--

you’ll see through all the charades and circus games and little quirks and witty jokes

I vomit up just to divert your attention.

Attention.

It’s what I want,

but the real kind’s like the plague.

I want your superficial non-judicial excuse for a good time.

I want attention that laughs and plays and then forgets the next day.

I want the thinnest little slice of I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-Love

so I can tell myself today was a good day.

I’ll whisper a joke in your ear

just for you to hear

so you think you’re special and I won’t have to go any farther to let you in.

In.

You want in?

Too bad.

Kitchen’s closed, down for repairs, broken stairs, no vacancy here

‘cuz I’m scared.

And I love my fear more than I love you--

after all, it raised me, taught me, protected me.

Fear’s like a guardian,

my unofficial third parent;

and nothing you can say or do or pretend to be can take away from all the influence

Fear’s had on me.

Sorry, no dice.

‘Cuz my secrets are a game of chance and you lose.

Close (not really) but no cigar.

Go on with your life and think you made a difference,

think you helped, think you loved, think you learned

‘cuz you didn’t.

You’re just the next king to my jester,

the next person I have to entertain until they’ll learn their place and leave me alone.

So go on--git.

Go throw back the drinks and run yourself down the spiral of Nowhere.

I know what you want. You want in (but not really).

You want all the benefits of my friendship without the

rough-around-the-edges,

what-are-you-doing-to-yourself,

you’ll-thank-me-one-day

long-term ones.

You want a shoulder to cry on: someone who cares--

but not enough to tell you you’re kissing the a*s of Self-Destruction.

Alone.

You’re alone and so am I.

I refuse to let you in because

you don’t really want in anyway.

You think you do so you can tell yourself

at the end of the day that

maybe you mean something to somebody--

or better yet, maybe someone thinks you’re cool.

Truth is, no one does.

In fact,

all your speeches and dances and little performances

are child’s play--and I’ve moved on.

So have your fun and drink your drinks.

You enjoy your inebriated, inundated, over-rated, emasculated  

road to Holy S**t while I close my doors and live by myself.

After all,

no one really wants in anyway.

Author's Note

Hehehe, gimme all you got on this one. Still don't know if I think it's good, but I have a fondness for it akin to that a teacher has for the kid who eats paste.

Reviews

[Truman S. Booth]

I really liked it. Once again, your conversational tone makes it very fun to read, like the author has a good-buddy relationship with the reader (even in a case like this where the author isn't addressing the reader).

And again, a very connectible poem. Everybody's been there with somebody--one of those really difficult relationships that its hard to put your finger on what they want, or even what you want. And I've never quite been able to put it in words...

But you did, right here. In this well-crafted, in-your-face, slang-filled, modern slam poem. Well done.