self-referential

It's like I simply sit,
scroll, simmer, maybe seethe, and
sift through the past, fearing
that I've not only passed
my prime but forgotten to take
a picture while it was still on
the immediate horizon.
And milestones have passed, enough
in the past now to have some kind
of something like insight
to pass on, but it's like -- if you were
so sure one day and so dumb on
the same day, then whose day will it be to
save the world on Tuesday? --an unanswerable
sphinx of a word problem, just to
try to say something. And that's, like, the
truest thing I've written yet, even if only
because it makes no sense and I like
nonsense because I'm like that. Perhaps some
wisdom will surface on the blank page
if I stare long enough into
nothing, but I'd rather read a book
about nothing than talk to
anyone about something,
if you know what I
mean, which you of course
don't. This was meant to be
my first poem in long
months, time filled with
fence sitting and
silent failure, something to mean
and to like and be liked for
meaning. This was not meant to
be so boring, but was supposed
to surprise my bored old soul into some
kind of something kind of
like love and loss and lots
of four letter words
beginning in 'L', if only
for the sake of being
contrary to expectation.
This was not meant to be.
Like that? (Except that I
don't accept that you'd like
that.)

It's like that.