Introspection, or the Lack of Attention.

Granted that I never
Really had the ability
The quite unconscious facility
Of making heads turn
Hearts burn
In my presence.
Yearn
In my absence.

Granted that my poetry
Was mostly trite
That write as I might
Even at my passionate best
I was devoid
Of that mass
Appeal.
That bestseller
Feel.

Yet I like to assume
That there was sometimes a flicker
A smoulder
A spark of debate
A glimmer of genius
In a mostly gentle flame.
A spot of beauty
In an unremarkable face.

Coming out of General Anesthesia

The stubborn tears
The old fears. It is as though the years
Have peeled back and my skin
My golden skin
Is suddenly shiny red
Then scarred and scabbed
Then bleeding from the wound
Of your absent love and
Hurting from the salt
Of my stubborn tears. My old fears.
Who stole the years
In between? Their fat security
Their false healing their fraudulent substitutes
Are fading
Blurring
Dissolving into these familiar tears
Sinking into those dreaded fears.
The doctor says that the effect of the anesthetic
Is wearing off.

I have been unwell

And when that happens when you are in your twenties
There are excalmations
And arms flung up in horror
And a barely concealed certainty
That you are doing something wrong. Smoking
Or drinking or drinking and smoking
Or skipping meals
Or exposing yourself to carcinogenic things.

So what?