Poetry

The Fall, 7 (251.)

A flake, a flake,
what is a flake?
Usually it’s a little something that’s
annoying, so you brush it off.
You don’t pay a lot of attention to
a flake, that’s for sure.
So these days,
as I find more excuses
to back out of social commitments,
when even meeting up virtually
takes too much out of me,
and I think to myself
over and over again
“I’m such a flake,”
I shouldn’t be surprised when
I don’t feel connected to anyone.
A bridge crosses a river both ways,
you see,
and I haven’t built my half
as sturdily as I’d like.
I’m trying to be there
for a solid construction effort;
I want to stop thinking
that I’m a flake.
I need
to be there,
and to be here,
present,
for me and for my friends.

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