Untitled

i feel like a ghoul at a museum,
prancing in the heart of another,
nodding,
a fool,
at pain and grief
dancing to the art, diseased
and though it looks as if
i'm sampling the cries,
making light
of every bite,
it's not consumption that
drives me.
but empathy.

that while i speak my mind, sincerely
my words are accounted
as merriment
and context is distorted
with no gesture to give,
from my plain font representatives.
i'm only trying to heal
with perspective and
how my experience informs it.
and failing, like a flailing
imp with a band-aid.

i view this honesty
as necessity.
and i honestly want
to know what possesses me
to so casually invest energy
in futile feelings.

so at night when i'm
done nibbling,
all the new the day gave
i'm reminded of
how i do dance
away tightly
from the responsibility
of what i say
when i gloss over
contentedly
pretending they're
me.
how i do lose sight
of my own intention
and the reasons for my attentions.
and how i'm thankful
my results
are flayed by obnoxious
thought replaying.

i look back morbidly
and wonder from what angle
should i view me.
if what i see remaining,
groped in the gallery
is really a reflection
of my sense of things,
or the careless
infatuations of
a passing fiend.