(Excerpted from a fictional piece)
There is a poem in my head, that is itching to find its feet. Does that ring sane to you? My poem, is nothing but a thought that I cannot serve up straight up to you, as it were. Its an elaborate construction of my whim. A whim that is trying to tell a story. My story.
Poems thrive on the belief that the writer can convey an inner joke, that only you might get, or at least you might get. To glide along the inside of my joke, we will need to share memories. We do have tons, right? We also need to share our vocabulary. Do we?
Its taken me years to admit to myself, that we neither have common memories or language. We have always walked on different worlds. Even today, we do, right? How hard it would be for either of us to sit across and build the bridge across our troubled between? I so want to do it. I tell myself that I dont have an ego barrier, and the only barrier in me is my fear of you understanding me. That is the part of the bullshit. Its my ego wall. A song that has no meter.
Today, I still live in the hope, that either of us will reach out. Tomorrow, there might be no "us". One day there will be no "us". One of us will not see the other die. Memories will eventually goto rust.
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