A Portrait Of A Thinker

at the time when you say
you want to take a picture of me
in that office
where books are not adornments
but necessities
of my being a part of this strict system
of competition and
rat racing,
i suddenly go to the instinct of biting
the nail of my hand
my arm pretends to be secure on the head
of the chair
covered with white leather
i look at it again
i smile at you
and you like it and then you click
the camera
and feed it on the computer and send it to me
with a dedication...(i will not write it here)

i suspect, really, (how can i tell you)
i am not that self, i have not composed it.

Yes, it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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