I don’t see you
Sometimes I don’t see you.
You and your lonely heart
are invisible to you and thus to me.
Please don’t block me out
because you don’t know yet what I am about.
How can I try to be near
if you can’t see
what you are doing to me?
You love you?
Maybe, but three?
Hey, how about the thunder
over yonder in the other Galaxy?
Remember that Apple?
Oh, what a travesty!
What is the whole picture? I guess I don’t see!
The core got too diseased, decidedly
and that Galaxy got too lazy
to perform under that pirate of novelty.
Again, what about the North Island?
Can we go there still, you and me?
Our plane ticket has expired and got shut down
because of faulty wire-y.
Oh, I see. How about a book about anatomy?
Is it possible to understand?
Remember we tried to get into that class
but we could only look through the glass
at that rigged online mass
because they decided that we were not on the menu
of their socioeconomic Parana-venue.
What about the class about the universe?
I always wondered which way was up.
Oh no, they already have the left wing
cornered, and anyway no one could sing
without the dunce hat coming into spring
out of that box, so suddenly, right?
So, what are we to do? I feel so full of spite!
Well, we don’t get a say, or make them feel our slight
ever, not even in summer.
Did we put the pot on to simmer?
No. Remember? It’s only a crock pot.
And I don’t want their class anyway
the glass was broken, and the answers were false.
I would rather set sail, but we will have to borrow a boat
to go around in a different moat.
I don’t want to be stuck in the south
with all of those dresses, so full of salt!
Sometimes I don’t see you.
There are so many distractions.
Who are you and who do YOU see?
You are a mystery to me.
Will we ever see each other
enough to talk about unimportant things?
Or is it the other way around?
Will I get to see you to talk about the important things?
I want to know your opinion
How can you not care?
You think I am too high?
What about you?
I think you are too
because your observations about me are obviously untrue.
Why do you choose to believe them?
Don’t you remember?
By Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art
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