Coming Clean

I am, amongst many things, a poet.
I write poetry for love
for loss
for laughter
for fun
and for... whatever.
Well this time is different.
This time
This time I'm writing for me.

I know I'm melodramatic
and as I feel my heart ache
others look in contempt
as though I am a liar
a faker
an "attention-seeker"
Well,
I have lied
and I have faked
and I have sought attention.
But nonetheless
I still feel this pain in my soul
and I know
somewhere within the depths
of my subconscious
that the only person
who can fix this pain
this agony
this self-degradation
and lack of self-value
...
is me.
So I plan to do it.

I am a son.
I am his son.
And though years have gone by
since he acknowledged it
I know he loves me.
I just know it.
I won't go into how I know
or why I know
I just do.
And as I say this,
I can't help but think
of all the times I've buried my head
into the soft hold
of someone close to me
and cried and cried
and asked why he didn't care
why he wanted me gone
why he hated me.
And it makes me hate myself
... more anyway...
Because I know if he had heard
if
if he had heard what I said.
that he didn't care
wanted me gone
HATED me
well,
he would hate himself
and he would cry.
And for so long
I told myself I hated him
I couldn't bare his existence
I know
I couldn't live without him
Not now.
Because I need to know
even if it isn't obvious
I need to know he's there
and that he loves me
just as much as I love him
or else all those things he's said
that I'm a disappointment
a disaster
a...
a failure...
they would all be true.
But they're not
even as I say it, I don't believe it
So I find myself repeating it like a mantra
I'm not
I'm not
I'm not
I'm not
I'm not a disappointment
I'm not a disaster
I am NOT a failure

I am a poet
And this one's for me.

The Drunken Banter

The boy spoke softly
his cherry lips
rendered me completely helpless
and as I staggered towards the light
I could not rid myself
of the broken player
stuck on a vinyl of his gentle words.
I finally reached the illuminated doors
-bathed in the harsh glow
of the red exit sign above them-
and stumbled into the alleyway.

I didn't know where I was,
and frankly, did not care.
It was night and the street was empty.
The boy followed me
his steps unwavering
trailing my drunk meandering.

I don't know who he was
or who he is
and only truly know
that he evoked from me
such sadness as I had not yet known.

The boy was dead,
my memory is now a poem,
my poem a eulogy.