I am not clever enough

to understand your words

at times. The majority

I comprehend, I empathise with

and nod in appreciation, if not

in agreement of your dilemma,

the narrow view in which you have painted

yourself in, the corner of the room

in which paint has not met floor

or ceiling covered over with wallpaper,

is like your mind,

a career in trying to look good

but not achieving a half way decent result;

stuck between self interest

and poorly managed heartbeats,

you scream into the microphone,

unaware that that it is not plugged in.

 

I am not clever enough

to recognise your anger

except when you take it out on me,

but then you were never clever enough

to value your own dying hide.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016