Too opinionated,
too open-minded,
or indifferent.

Too real,
too fake,
or inconsistent.

We ask ourselves
to know the other.
"Kindness," we say.
It's no matter how
hard,
soft,
or careless.

One is
asked
to assess their total failure,
or mediocrity,

against the striations of normalcy
until one finds themselves
in odds and errors.

There are some people
in such strangeness
that finding the right pill
is their greatest victory.

There are some people
who are so normal,
so consistent,
that looking at themselves
without a filter
is their greatest defeat.

But you know
and I know
and they know

that as the screens darken,
as the red curtain rises,
as the black stage beckons,

you know
and I know
and they know

that it does not flatter.
And there is no flatter
curve
than mixing with the grain,
or mixing our tears
with the rain.

And like long talks
our blood spills upon the floor,
thicker than water.
But water has been there before,

running wild-eyed through alleyways
on days darker than **** from hard work.
And we're so dehydrated
that a single drop of truth,
reality,
inflates our brain like a dry sponge.

There is a mental expansion so painful
that shots to the belly
might be a blessing,
if keeping it real is the smoking gun.

It’s a constant that we are
killed by hands entrenched in opinion,
convinced they are
the open ones.
It is an error
that is
the total failure of a life lived out of focus,
measured in "I'm right" and "they're wrong."

There is a glass ball of hindsight,
but it is foggy
from too much pride,
too much embarrassment,
or no awareness.

It is fear though,
scratching at the chest
like starving rats
in a newly opened cage,
that can keep anyone from looking back
on their failure to be
self-aware.