Only We know that you’ve been sitting here, creating something from absolutely nothing but for your type-written, pen-poisoned, saving grace Holds the shape of your once upon a pretty, pretty face If only we should have been here since the detrimental beginning So soon as you first started bleeding… Is it tremendously true though, that the OCD took you for its fool, offered you all of the gold in the world, and upon your uncontrollable insistence at rushing right in, that it is all that you have been left with for now? And that no-one else will ever get to let themselves fully understand nor jadedly comprehend That the only true ‘genius’ of your wayward nature lies misrepresented miserly within … your very-nearly-there process of blinding approval? Never comes, never will The impossibility of scaling the very same mountain that you watched your mind build since a child of ten And often What do you do when you ask for none of this, not even the good parts!? The parts that you have literally no part in happening! You are on the peripheral, counting the seconds stand still Standing frozen, still chipping away So much so that it frightens you to the bones of your singular being with every next interrupting time it gathers to gainfully whisper Even if you don’t get to feel it make any sense of itself anymore Point in invisible danger, my friend Any more than when you wished that it could… perhaps should have done since you were that very same wild-child carrying with her too many tics to ever comfortably mention And is it triangularly true, is it though? That figuratively speaking there is three of you That you write in your sleep Whilst the devil creeps? Knocking away at the edges till it reawakens yourself Get to colouring in the stolen features of their jagged meanderings Back to belonging Absolutely nowhere but for you and this silent room And the incredible stirring nature of the unreachable in between Where most people seem to be Without even bothering Without even trying When what you have been asked to accept is too hard to understand Too many mismatched pieces of a divided jigsaw And even when it does the mere math It is always still falling This appears to be with you til then And with one kindly hand, albeit masterfully interfering, upon the rolled dice for paradise Over its encyclopedic shoulder stands The other leg which has been solicitating With an invisibly suggested hell…

Do you really wish to live within the gesticulating reach of your each and every next calculating poem? probably? No?
We are sincerely sorry, Signed: The-People-Who-You-Should-Have-Known