Could be, perhaps, that nothing bad
has come to me in life;
or that which seems to others sad
and cause for care and strife
to me has been mere shadow’s play.
My days’ and night’s events
could look to some a grand array,
an endless stream of merriment
filled more with smiles than tears.
I’ve never struggled, you might chide,
in all my living years;
nor had look in from outside
while others shared the pot.
My ailments, those of wealthy men,
expensive tastes and rot;
a disappointing might-have-been
reduced by sloth and slack
to meaningless and endless work
that feeds neither the mind nor back,
creating a mere bitter jerk
who knows no more of love and loss
than what defines the words.
That poems like this I can toss
away in moments, seems absurd.
Could be, perhaps, no tragic tale
lies hidden in my smile;
Emotions? Fabricated veils
to mislead and beguile.
Could be, but you will never learn.
For all you’ll ever see
is what I throw away and burn:
my emptiness, not me.
30 MAY 2012
