he doesn't see me
isn't it funny?
(like an italian comedy of sorts)
shakespeare would write about this
and i would be the one to die.

then i say this is a wasp
on a lily-pad
wherever my dignity went
it wouldn't matter anyway-
because he stole my compass and refuses to give it back
hiding it in his coat pocket with a blank stare
walking away and leaving me there
and i think, i cannot think about him when i feel so ugly
i don't know, though – i have grown comfortable with this
or adjusted or something like that.

he doesn't see me
isn't it funny?
sure so i'd laugh at me
waving dumbly as he walks right past me
cursing at him to give me back my compass already
this is the sort
of thing
i do
it's like
a hobby --

be (my) tutor & show (me) what you know
explain to me the things you understand
forget it – i am ashamed that i even venture to think of you
that i even presume to give you personality just because
you don't see me & it is sosilly how i replayeverything you said and try to interpret

won't you teach me calculus?
(i have curled my hair for you)
won't you teach me aristotle?
(i have not cried for you yet)

but i really…
i really doubt there's anything
i could teach you-
in return-
that you don't

(and isn't it funny?)

to read this poem in it's real format: redrush (dot) net (slash) kindof (dot) txt