It Doesn’t

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Does it end?

It can’t—

It never begins.

There’s nothing, and it’s all something—

But it’s not everything.

That’s what makes it so sad.

I shed sometime tears,

Between all-the-time smiles.

Every time.

I substitute an inane laugh

For an indispensable cry.

That’s what makes it so sad.

My skin has shrunk—

Or my soul has gotten a little too fat—

I don’t fit into myself anymore.

I feel tight around the chest,

I’m choked up at the neck,

My lids don’t close.

Being barefoot hurts too—

I could wear shoes—

What good would that do?

Covering what’s bare doesn’t make it less bare—

It just makes it barely visible.

I already am.

Someone once told me to just breathe—

(As if he didn’t, I would have not done it on my own).

It’s advice like that which makes for stupid holiday cards.

But it’s not Christmas, and I don’t celebrate Easter—

Don’t bother to tell me to ‘Get Well’—

Cause that’s a really imbecilic prescription.

I won’t ever stop wondering ‘Why?’

Even if I had the answers.

I always look for ‘Where?’

Even if it’s in front of me.

I seem to never get enough of ‘When?’

Even though I don’t have time.

I often think ‘What?’

Even though it replies before I ask.

I am always aware of ‘How?’

Even so—I prefer to kid myself.

It’s a vicious circle, or a pleasant oval—

Maybe an indifferent square, perhaps a careless rectangle.

The shape of it doesn’t matter.

It starts.

It doesn’t begin.

It finishes.

It doesn’t end.

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