Writing helps me bear things.  Difficult things, emotionally sticky things, things that go bump in the night.  I'm shamefully poor at speaking my feelings to others, but I can write just about anything.  I just wrote this, below.

--

You're a Picasso, she said,
in not so many words.

She said, I love your outfit.
Then, a step closer.
Are those stripes - blue?
And those pants - black?
She wrinkled her nose.

And then, the familiar inner monologue.

It's me, I thought.
It's got to be.
Everyone else
finds her charming.
Her blinding smile
infectious laugh
So lovely, she
from first to last.
Always the right thing
said or done
Not finding fault
with anyone.
Nothing but praise
escapes her lips
To hear you'd think
All she worships.


But then why do
I always feel
That I to her
do not appeal.
Why does it seem
her eyes grow dim
her smile wanes
her praises thin
Whenever I
enter the room?
Why do I cause
Relative gloom?


Could it be
all's in my head?
A self-fulfilling
source of dread?

But no!
But no.


If I let myself think like this
What will become of my small bliss?
The part of me that knows I'm right
Will disappear into the night
I'll wake one day to find myself
Dusted, folded, and on the shelf
But I'm not done
Just starting out!
I won't go down
Without a SHOUT
I'll hold head high
And carry on
I'll stand up straight
A smile I'll don


And when the guests have left tonight
And her own smile is not so bright
I'll hide away up in my room
To unburden all with a poem.