A Friend

And so my ineffectuality was the most disruptive.

It spoke over me in conversation,

And glossed over my image.

Slighted my smile and clung to me as I tried desperately to leave my print on the hearts of others.

It frequented the place where my dreams lie and whispered abuses at them telling them to die as I slept,

scrubbed away at my footprints in the dirt as I walked and rendered my existence merely superficial.

Yet somehow my ineffectuality serves as a warming blanket in wintry spells,

And permits that I lean on its shoulder as I cry.

So often it had lined prickly ideations of suicide with Cashmere so I could sit in them more comfortably,

And held my hand as I contemplated the flight into nothingness.

I can only hope that blanket remains firm when I end,

so that my passing might not too violently displace others,

or inspire them to write salty tear-stained pain filled eulogies,

their words forever haunting them under the dark shadow of grief,

and sour brief shining moments of sumptuous joy with a familiar poison,

eating viciously away at childlike hopes of eternity or adolescent delusions of immortality for as long as they’ll live.

And so, I figured there are worse ways to exist, than to be as I am,

(and as most of us are).

Look closely enough,

In the quest for peace

and find solace in your ineffectuality.