Bittersweet poet

You’re not interesting
any more

you told me once
after a couple
of glasses of nice
sweet
red wine.
it felt like
we were drinking our
own sweet
red
blood
after you asked me about
our imitation of
happiness. but
I’ve already sold my soul
by pretending
to be a writer.
funny that —
bittersweet me
thinks that
I’m a poet —
a bloody poet,
one of hundreds of thousands
of them, a poet
that groans inside,
who just keeps on writing
about travels
down the flashy road
of mirrored obscurity.
I can often be philosophical
about that, and
you know me very well,
so why should I be bothered
pretending again
that I know anything
about us?
so yes,
my darling,
you were right,
I am NOT interesting at all
but I still own
that little piece of my mind
that doesn’t belong
to anyone.

so there he goes,
that bittersweet me,
he’s at it
again—

pretending.