Cracks

I critique. Constantly. Things I do. Things others do. Everything. Because I can't stop Seeing things Through five different lenses At once. Sometimes that works well: Songs I enjoy I can dissect And discover A dozen different meanings: Meanings planned and unplanned, Meanings the author might not have intended, And while the author is dead, The reader is alive and, Well, Breathing life into these Lifeless words through reading. But other times It destroys. I eviscerate ideas, Stories, and concepts, Because every lens shows another flaw, An error my brain won't shut up about, Whether real or imagined, Because it just. Doesn't. Fit. Like me. Like how I don't. How I don't belong. I won't belong. I can't belong. Because I don't go along. Won't go along. Can't go along. And still be me. So I stop; I drop the book, And I roll away. Because nobody wants to hear My thoughts; Least of all, Me.