I Know About (Not) Popular

I am not popular.

I have never been popular.

I will never be popular. 

There is no engagement of consequence on social media for any of my posts. My friends look but they don’t comment. Most don’t “like”. There are no questions. Using hashtags to get the posts in front of the eyes of strangers also does little in the way of making connections. Zilch. Nada. Crickets.  

Most of what I write falls into the void of cyber space. My essays, poems, fiction, and stories don’t find an audience. So they don’t evoke a response. There is no connection. Maybe the ancient aliens in the black hole of time will one day find my words floating around them and stop to read, finding a writer they can identify with, but he will be long dead.

I have wasted so much time wishing and hoping and trying, only to realize I am enacting the definition of crazy. The response is always the same. Yet still, I periodically insist on running around this loop of discouragement. 

The depression and sadness it causes me is real. And it’s real for others. In that I am not alone. But I am the subject of this writing, and I can’t bear the emotional strain, the mental weight. I can’t figure out how to just put an essay or an Instagram post out into the world and let it land, breathe, live. I desire a response. I long for it. Just like an actor needs applause. I want to engage with an audience that doesn’t seem to find me interesting.

I feel like a failure: worthless, unworthy, and less-than. I will never be a sensation. I often say being invited to the party is enough. But I will never get the invitations to the parties that I will then decline.

I might be a selfish, self-involved, non-empathetic person who thinks he deserves more than others, and that he should be recognized for his trivial Instagram posts and descriptive word choices in his blog essays and his…etc, etc.

But, still…

I am not popular. 

I have never been popular. 

I will never be popular. 

©️MichaelRohrer

Surface/Life

It’s all surface…his life.

There is no depth. 

It’s shallow, perfumed with artifice. 

The loneliness is real.

The solitude his choosing.

His anger is rife, 

And exhausting.

He places blame, lives in fear.

The walls are high.

The asylum soothing.

He exists in strife; 

Breathless, fading.

He sleeps, avoids by dreaming.

The nakedness quelled.

The exposure looming.

It’s all surface…his life; 

A creation.

He yearns to change, but is tired.

The disquiet is heavy.

The darkness seducing.

He does not long for death;

To leave anyone behind, mourning.

He longs for non-existence,

Which leaves no one broken-hearted from knowing.

The road is twisted, curved. 

The hills go up then down.

There has to be a fork.

There has to be a sign.

He has to make a choice.

Life…

His.

©️MichaelRohrer

Slipping

He slipped out of your life. 

Have you noticed?

Has it been a day, a week…a year?

What once was is now a memory.

Do you feel it, his absence?

Does it even matter?

The seasons have changed. 

Yet the sun is cold. 

There is a void, but is it empty?

Is the effort too much?

The slipping too easy?

Is there blame?

The light has faded, 

The colors too.

A faint essence remains.

He slipped out of your life.

Visible, yes.

But ultimately gone.

©️MichaelRohrer

Observations from a TBLE @ Rue 57

A father speaks to his son. The son listens. He thinks. There is no friction. No angst. The son looks like a rebel but he isn’t. He responds to his father. It’s almost jovial, without a smile. The father nods his head. The son then smiles. A small Coke bottle is picked up from the table. The son takes a swig. Sugary goodness. The father’s wine glass sits half full to his right. The father’s face is hidden but his posture indicates he too is smiling, happy. The people at the table too appear to be happy. Cell phones are out. Social media apps being perused?? Pictures are taken. Food is shared. They are happy.

 
She sits across from him in her pink sweater. Talking. Talking. He is so cute. He smiled at me when he returned from the restroom. I desperately wish she too would go to the restroom just so I can see what he’ll do. IF he’ll do. But she appears to have a bladder of steel, and keeps talking, talking, never leaving the table. They know I’ve been watching them…coyly. He smiles at me again as he puts on his jacket. Then both say “goodnight” as they pass. He won’t kiss me later, but his smile is fodder for my dreams.

They are obviously tourists. From where, who knows. But their sweatshirts and table etiquette  give them away. They can’t hide. They have invisible scrunchies in their hair. All of them. Even the balding men.

©️MichelGarreau

Complete

When do the pieces fall into place?

Is life a puzzle filled with curves and shapes that don't fit:

Big pieces

Small pieces

Pieces with no bloom?

Don't the pieces have to fit together?

Doesn't there have to be rhyme, reason...purpose?

Doesn't there?

Maybe not.

Maybe it's random.

What if the pieces are just pieces

And the rhymes just words that end in different sounds:

Blithe laughter,

Silent screams,

Chords both bitter and sweet?

What if the pieces remain sep'rate?

I am a collection in a single piece.

Beautifully vibrant,

Gracefully muted,

Dissonant...and silent.

Maybe there's beauty in the chaos,

And the purpose in my collection is lone.

Together...

Or apart

A complete work in one.

PLAYTIME

The sun creeps across the lawn

Burnishing the grass: phosphorescent, brilliantly green.

It chases the shadows. Protection is fleeting.

A gnarled finger of shade reaches across the fence.

It beckons, but it lies. There is no salvation there.

The air grows warmer: heavier, delicately humid.

The clouds rise up, themselves creeping.

It’s Hide-and-Seek time. The shadows revel in their temporary advantage.

This game is not new. It’s familiar, recurring.

From my haven of shelter I watch as they play. A change occurs: a retreat, a fade.

The clouds have been bested, the shadows displaced, as once again

The sun creeps across the lawn.

On The Occasion Of Your Anniversary

 January 16, 1971

Fifty years ago today

The roses were red in your wedding bouquet.

There was tulle, satin…delicate lace;

Blue velvet and stripes and a smile on each face.

With something blue and something new,

Was anything borrowed? I haven’t a clue.

You were young. Were you scared?

Your lives were changing. Were you prepared? 

Time is fleeting. Years fly by.

Looks like you made it. Even Ms. Twain can’t deny

Was everything roses?

Of course it wasn’t. But this writer proposes…

Smile. Exhale. Look back on your lives:

Reflect. Reminisce. Remember. Realize.

A choice was made in ‘71

And her eyes still adore you in 2021

What was then has now grown,

You’ve both been changed forever, “For Good.” Who could’ve known?

Fifty years ago today

The roses were red in your wedding bouquet

January 16, 2021

Happy 50th Anniversary