You are my poem.
Untold,
so true,
but awfully blue.

You are my song.
Silvery,
so gentle,
but tragically sung.

You are my story.
Explicit,
so fine,
but a fancy crime.

You are my landscape.
Beautiful,
so natural,
but blandly done.

But,
yes.
I know.
It's just
*You were.

I write a bunch of sad things in my notebook, and if I die tonight,
that's all you'll have to remember me with-
my depression.

I want to leave you with more than that.

Why can't I decide?
"Because he's a good one" she said
But I still can't decide
And I'm dying inside
Because no matter how hard I try
I still can't decide
How I feel

don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.