It Is Funny

It is funny, she is thinking
That what I write is all
About her, so

When I write about
A pig, she claims she is insulted
She is being the one
Alluded to as the pig
Or If I write about
A bat hanging
On a cave rock
With a reversed upside
Point-of-view, she complains
She is not that,
Whatever,

But it is so tragic
She feels pain and she accuses
Me as the reckless
Man inflicting all these on
Her body, her mind,

We did not meet
Even for once, I do not
Know her, she does not even
Have a name, and a permanent
Place, I have not even seen
Her face her shadow,
And she cries I caused
Her pain…

We are strangers,
Complete strangers

That Is unfair! She needs
The doctor who healed me,

This paranoia maims.

Is she another kind of
Sort mysterious talked
About by the old wise man
In my village, in my old hometown?

break me, i am frozen

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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