Tourette

I’ve got a mental sort of Tourette’s:
My mind sputters your name,
Interrupting my thoughts, and before I know where I’ve gone,
I’m hoping you will hear me,
Dreading you can,
Because the seeing parts of me perceive
You’re still making up your mind about me.
But their perception is interpreted uselessly by loose suggestions –
My mind takes words and writes them otherwise,
Bending to meet my desires to be captivating
Rather than my need to be logical.
I was never good being reasonable,
Though I can reason any insecurity in or out at my beck and call,
I’m the stage manager for my stage of mind.
Excuses for the actions of others are my specialty,
Scripting them the perfect alibi,
Tucking their former intentions into the silence of my pockets, up sleeves, against breasts,
But years of notekeeping are weighing me down,
Crowding from the waste basket in the corner of my heart,
I’m in need of a little more honesty than what most care to offer –
Mind convulsion  – – – your name
Is called out,
Like an answer,
To a riddle I don’t yet know.
So I hope you’ll excuse me if you can hear my vanity,
Attention-seeker seeking attention that isn’t hers,
Clamouring noisily without invite,
Calling out your name with outstretched hand…
She just can’t help it yet.

Give Sharkey a piece of your mind.

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