10% Fiction

i feel insular,
inside out,
separated sock.
letters scroll past,
squeezing my insides,
sharp consonants around lungs.
soft vowels around hearts.
there’s some kind of feeling in here.
some kind of overly,
self-critical-analysis.
that tears through the blue.
and there’s some kind of gratitude.
but it’s laced with,
something incapacitating,
pulled tight, stretched taut,
strummed by self doubt.
you’ve left behind words.
words that contain feelings.
as you notched another,
inch on the graph,
that some obsess about.
but of obsessive realities,
i have little care.
i’m simply obsessed with this pen,
and the a, s, d, f, g, h, j, k, l,
and a world to create,
within a world,
from inside this one and zero place,
that is fiction,
and yet,
also strangely true.
but most of all,
i am looking at myself,
trying to see what you do.
and offering the two words,
that you truly deserve.
they are,
Thank,
and,
they are,
You.
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