inner mind

even my confusion is abstract. I never

took art class, so I don't know how to

interpret myself.  like I'm a Dead Sea

Scroll- I feel ages old.  coffee-stained. 

other people try to crack my code, but what

is the point?  I lost my key.  maybe I wasn't

even born with it.  but that's ok.

something about being a mystery to

myself is enchanting, sensuous.

hieroglyphical.  like a star, a scientist

can theorize what I consist of, but no-one

can get close enough to know me.

one night I dreamt of magnets. everyone

else was either north or south.  I was neither.

part of me laughed, the rest of me

stored it away in the "DO NOT OPEN" 

box of my brain.  to open it would be 

Pandora's Box 2.0.  one wouldn't want to 

be responsible for that.  today I learned 

a new word: anemoia.  chipped paint,

tintype, victory rolls, transatlantic accents,

the movie A Christmas Story.  these things

make me feel anemoia.  an obscure song

that used to play on a record hits an esoteric

chord. for some reason, this tugs at my tear

ducts.  in this manner, I cry myself to sleep.

hoping I am not the only one.  but then, I 

hope I am.  it makes for good dreams.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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