Sick of being noticed
and valued, for the wrong
things, for the right things
- valued accurately, who cares?
Whose business of mine is theirs?
I just want nothing in particular!
Sometimes to stick out, other times
will be pounded flat. That teaches
no lesson, who is the hammer? Who
the hand? I at least am the nail,
but what kind? Nine-inch - all
scratchy and sick with ratcheted
up disgust and scorn? One of the
three True Nails of the True
Cross, with James Bond Han Solo's
dad hot on the case? Perhaps a
carpet nail, or a suitable
spike to whap halfway into
a wall (having found the stud,
or whatever it's called) - drape
a framed picture over it! How
am I to live when I don't know
the specifics of my own
metaphor? It's no wonder
really, I'm a bit sick
of being noticed.
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