Real Time (standard:poetry, 593 words)
Author: Leonard Becker	Added: Dec 16 2000	Views/Reads: 3460/2068	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A rant about a man at the depth of depression and loneliness

I am not 

Nor have I ever been, 

A real person. 

Or more accurately an adult person. 

I look like a man (and can sometimes be confused with one) 

And can theoretically be confused with adults, 

BUT BE CERTAIN I am not an adult. 

I am a child, 

Thrust into a wine-drenched pile of work, 

And responsibility 

And bad thoughts 

And bad deeds 

All covered with a blanket of curious sexual appeal 

FOR THINGS I CAN’T UNDERSTAND 

I can partake in these things, 

And even enjoy them superficially, 

BUT I CAN’T UNDERSTAND THEM MUCH LESS MASTER THEM! 

And I know I’m just ruining them, 

Tainting the essence of what made it great! 

And no one understands this fact. 

I’m just a kid, not meant to grow up, 

Not meant to live beyond my parent’s grasp, 

Beyond their care, beyond where they can tell me how to live. 

Was I supposed to die young? 

Perhaps God had intended me to 

·  drink myself to death in a high school kegger? 

·  die a tragic cancer death at eight? 

·  suffocate like a fool in a crib? 

Why? 

To inspire some other greatness? 

Could be. 

Who? 

Perhaps my death was to inspire my brother a great pop song about me? 

Or my mother to strive and find the cure for cancer? 

And when I, like the foolish ass that I am, 

Didn’t die, 

I thrust the world into upheaval 

Confusion. 


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