It hangs over me
like a cloud
dark and pregnant
with hot August rain
it waits to be born
the obligation was there
from the moment the pen
released me
and I practiced my autograph
as though anyone
but a landlord
would want it
the obligation taunts
and mocks me
there is always something to do
and duty to others is a comforting excuse
but I know the truth
my world is split into
the life I lead
and the life
I write about
living through it all once is hard enough
but only a true believer
would attempt to re-live it
and in the end when I die
will I have a stack
of papers by my coffin?
Part of my legacy will be
stacked neatly in a book
but most will be crammed
into the manila files that
I swiped from the office
and the world may never know
that I lived that first time
or even that second time
and I expect to cheat death
by expecting my survivors
to live it all a third time
I am a narcissist and a parasite
because I do not do this
for its own sake
or for God
or any other unseen audience
I write to be seen
because
sometimes
I feel faraway and unreal
like a mirage
a ghost
looking for his ancestral home
so again
I sit down and
I peck away at these
plastic keys
trying to find some
real keys
to something
bigger than myself
better than myself
but ultimately
all these words
boil down
to
me.
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