I'm not a poet

Definitely not. NOT EVEN CLOSE. But I had a lot on my mind today, and I was buried in meetings...which were frustrating me (understatement) - so this just came out. I guess it was better I jotted this down then tell any number of people to shut the hell up and start listening.

The poem sucks - but it means something to me.


You’re Complicated

You’re complicated.
I’ll throw that at you.
Not that you are.
It’s just that I can’t process anything.
Or face anything.
Or think about anything.
If it causes me to face
My fears
The truth
My anger
My guilt
It’s far too complicated for me.

The mundane
The busywork
The funny, the silly, the easy
Sure - that I can do.

But if it's serious, or meaningful, or unscripted
It's too complicated.
I’ll blame you.
You and your damn complicated mind.
I’ll make it your fault.
I know you’ll take it.
You always do.

It’s easier for it to be your fault.
You absorb guilt like a sponge.
You process it and deal with it and steer things another way.
It bounces off me.
At least temporarily.
And I can breathe again.

It doesn’t really fix it.
Never.
My guilt - about the deflection, about the issue at hand
It sits under the surface
It festers
It gets moldy and rancid
And I'll push it aside again.
And again.
And make it your complication.

Someday I know
I'll have to face everything there.
I know that.
And because I know that
And avoid it today
Really - I'm unhappy
I want to be happy
But happiness is difficult
You have to face your fears, your angst, your guilt
And your problems

I'm not there yet.
And you're - you're complicated.
But you're here.