Unconsciously
I write to me.

Ironically
the poetry
I give
to make others think
truly reflects
my deeper needs.

As I speak
eloquently
with grief,
recording
my own history
asking others,
to learn from
what they read,

I forget to
learn those
lessons to.

Until,
ghosts
emerge
as symbols
in my dreams,
lost figures
reaching out for me,
allowing me
to remember
what I forgot to
tell myself
as I was
reprimanding
all of you.

I am such a goof,
and it would be so funny
if it wasn’t such
an epic tragedy.