My efforts to contribute are poorly noted,
Because I don't understand the rules of being social,
Translucent rituals projecting me on a platform to perform,
But I play the role and I play it well,
Mr funny,
Mr Charismatic,
Mr ******* personality,
A novelty every room needs to make others feel healthy,
Every brush of shoulder,
Makes me stick to them like lint to their shirt for a passing gesture and joke,
Only to eject myself from conversation just in time to evade the question,
"How are you?"
On the rare occasion some negate my strategy only to trigger my fail safe,
To redirect attention to the success of those I love.
Because they are an extension of myself and they are the only part of me that's doing well.
I hang myself with my vocal cord,
swinging from one room to the next,
Instead of gasping for air,
I scour for words,
Instead of turning blue,
I turn manic,
Hoping that the next thing I say is the last thing I say,
But it never is,
So I pray wit doesn't abandon me like half my audience when they notice I'm rambling,
I collect the last of the laughter in the bottom of an empty red cup and watch the sun turn full circle.
