I sat, meditating,
Thinking, not about… fate-ing?
My mind, was a boil then,
My life, won’t pick up a pen.
Where am I now?
Am I meant to bow?
I’m on a stage, but in the wings,
Just drawing curtains.. and things.
That works both ways actually.
I’m pulling away the curtain so people can see,
The main show.
The big woe.
The drama, people sow.
But I’m drawing things as well.
Drawing life, drawing people, drawing plants.
And that’s where I feel good.
Not at the back of the stage.
I want to be behind the page,
At least getting the minimum wage?
I am too anxious to go out there.
Onto the stage of life?
I’m too worried to care.
Just cure my OCD but keep me mad.
If I was normal… I’d be very sad.
What is normal?
I will answer next.
Not in poem, but in pure text.
I can’t bear people thinking normal is what they are,
Normal? You want to be normal?
A spaceman driving a car.