The triumph of falling

Excuse me for the agony
of pushing you to listen
to someone besides your exaulted self.

I understand that what concerns me concerns no one else--
(so high on your throne, lurking on top of that creaking sky-scraper)
but for a minute I'd like you to pretend
that my needs are worth something
(even though they're not)
so I can feel the lighting-bolt sizzle of understanding
(you know, the flare you've always had for yourself).

No trumpets blaring when I arrive,
but since when was the court jester ever the main attraction?
Scurrying around, trying to look like I belong here
(when all these bright-tomorrow minds have already glanced me over and found me lacking in all departments).
I spend my days scrambling for half-rotten crumbs, my fortune ill-content;
(see, I knew it was a hitormiss chance, but I'm not satisfied with what playing by the rules has left me.)

Should I be?

Yeah, yeah, I know: it's a selfish, wasted wish.
But if nice guys finish last, then I should at least end up in the middle.
(something's better then nothing, or was it the other way around?)

And even though I swear it leftandright,
(swear I'm looking frantically for that One True Answer to drag me out)
obviously that's another lie I don't mind attaching my soul to,
because the answer's always been right in front of me.

(but don't you see, I can't stop, I'm just such a fan of the self-inflicted macabre.)

Now was that so hard?
You got to look like you gave a shit about something besides your own perfect-mistake of a life.

You should be proud, I hear that's good for a patontheback or two.

---

AN-- this is more of a jelous rant then poetry. i'm in an aboslutly shitty mood right now. wrote this on notepad because microsoft word decided to stop working. which just made my day even better, of course. so forgive any spelling mistakes, notepad is too stupid for spellcheck. also forgive me if this is a laughable, cliche' mess of an excuse for poetry. it wouldnt be the first time.