Condescending to humor my intimate muse,
You sought out her words in my writing.
I couldn't have guessed that you'd actually choose,
To tell her what you think is the source that I'm citing.
Get over yourselves, the drama and strife,
I can tell you’ve found something you wanted to see.
And, of course, held it up to the shape of your life,
And think you see secrets you once shared with me.
Forgive my intrusion throughout that December,
If that friendship seemed somehow untrue,
I won't try to persuade you, but you ought to remember,
Sometimes, unbelievably, it's not about you.
My task is obsessive, compulsion, expression,
I write the universal, the aggregate whole.
Never to betray or teach some grand lesson,
I’d rather enrich than to harm a good soul.
Emotions exposed and stories delivered may wound or dignify,
My job is to make it have life and clarity;
Give it weight enough to signify.
And, as then, when we meet,
Sour or sweet,
Speaking our truth,
The words that can wound,
Heal or conceal...
All of them wind to what our actions reveal.
I have had a few occasions where people close to me were certain that I was writing about them.
I was certain, each time, that they were mistaken.
I was broken, each time, that they’d missed the whole plot.
This piece actually came about over decades and an uncharacteristic snarkiness was added at the urging of a friend to give it more “attitude”. Ha.