MY POST MODERN CONFESSIONS

It must have been decades.

Or is it just a day?

 I have aged a hundred damn years

Since you came my way.

You named me melodramatic

And it was all automatic

The words on my mind

That would be on your lips

Whether over melancholy and vodka

Or tea and potato chips.

Sometimes I find affection

In the smoke you blow

And sometimes I reap

The maniacal seeds you sow

In you I see the road

And also the dead end

But could you be my calling?

And ought I to go?

I’ve been a fool,

Did you know that before?

I sense you make fun

Of the silly things I do

When the world laughs at me

Do you join them too?

Like acne in my life

I hide you with a made up face

But just like the acne

You hurt with the choices you make

Post modern I am not

But post modern I could be

I could mold me into what you want

And call it “fact only”

Sigh, how old am I?

A hundred years or seventeen?

May be I died the day you came my way;

Or I might have started living.