Like Drowning Sorrows in a Puddle

If I was to ask you,
“What is it you want from me;
what is it you expect me to be?”
I wonder what I’d hear from you.
Am I a trash heap for sorrows,
the already flaming dumpster
of self-inflicted woes or those
committed by others upon me?
What’d be the harm in tossing
a few more on the fire, right?
Or am I an ancient outcropping
of granite shoulder that will
support you and you and you
if you’re searching for a clear view
of this cloud-bound world?
Is it more tears than your own
you seek, mute nods of understanding,
even if I’m as numbed by this
shallow section of life as a puddle?
Or is it sorrowful, powerful words
that frame your worries in radiating
ripples built of nothing but 0’s and 1’s?
Perhaps you’re hoping for me to create,
with these countless lies I splash
into existence, tiny prisms,
each containing a view of a world
in all its squint-eyed beauty?
I’m tired now, barely capable of spitting
these droplets of words out here.
But you know I’ll do my best to be whoever you need.
If only someone would do the same for me.

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Never Asked Why

3-28 FWF

When all crashes down, when the light turns its lunar backside toward you, when someone never wants to see you again, when you fail and fail and fail, and you stand there amid the debris of this portion of your life, or even the whole sloppy enchilada, do you ask Why? I’ve always been the searching under the hood, the diligently dissecting, the scour the gummy memory questioner of How. How did this happen? How can I make it better? How can I clean up this mess of a Mexican meal I’ve come to rest in? Perhaps I miss that most prominent point, not seeking the answer of that fifth W of the reporter’s game, but more likely I don’t wish to see the bad, the mad look upon your face when you sadly tell me I’m a cad. If I can just walk away from this latest crash-and-burn, coldly replay the flaming, falling Hindenburg film of my own disaster minus all the “Oh, the humanity,” I might learn something about me and about you.  I’d learn something perhaps not so new. Just another guilt-gilded answer to the Why question you never heard me ask. One that I never knew How.

Free Write prose poem (I hope) that rolled like a raindrop down my window. Guess I saw this reflected in it.