Now where did I put that bathrobe...?

The Painting

You are an upside down painting

Not to be understood.

Yet the critics, the painters, the buyers,

The liars

Stroke chins and murmur contemplative

Sighs at you.

Write books of ever-growing size of you.

Make eyes at you.

Surmise of you.

I'm not surprised at you

If you are laughing.

Poem number two for my Creative Writing class series. The teacher will probably hate it.

Today I was wandering around outside of my work place with a confused look on my face. I wasn't confused. Just aware that every cell in my body wanted me to be back in bed, rather than wandering around outside. My hair was disheveled. I looked like an Alzheimer's patient who actually escaped the Facilities and was now looking for his bathrobe because... well, he couldn't remember why exactly. But he was there, wandering around with a confused look on his face and a strong conviction in his heart that he should be there.

"What are you looking for?" said a lady who I see probably every day, but I don't think she sees me, and I'm perfectly okay with that.
"My bathrobe!" I said. No, I didn't. But that would be hilarious.

"Nothing. I work here." said I. Really.

I'm not even going to mention the philosophical assertions that can be made with that brief interchange. Isaac's not looking for anything anymore, because he has a job. He's comfortable. He's lost his will power to search out life, to look for what matters, to explore the depths of this beautiful world. He has a comfortable job that pays him over minimum wage to write blogs and do homework. What are you looking for? Nothing, I work now. I'm not a crazy loony wandering around outside looking for his bathrobe. I'm a crazy loony inside who doesn't care where his bathrobe is, anymore, and would rather sit at a computer.

Oh, the sadness!

I'm late for class.