My Own

Something to show for myself would have been a good idea,
I was full of those good ideas,
until they were bad,

threading in and out of my mind,
poisoning my already faltering synapses with the idea that I deserved this,
much more than this,

but the truth may be quite contrary,
or confusing,
or inconclusive,
because I did not know what I deserved

that was the long,
and the very,
very short of all of this,

if we were using the abacus the way we said we would when we were little,
if we were doing that,
then maybe the wrinkles in my fingers would not be so pronounced,

you told me there was one for every lie I told myself,
but maybe it was one for every lie I took,
from you,
from them,
from everyone

I had nothing to show for myself,
because I believed in being nothing,
because I believed in nothing,
because I knew nothing of myself,

I was like you,
vacant,
absent from reason,

but maybe that was the purpose for all this,
maybe