at, twenty, for, where, to?

I pretend this is simple.
I write as if the words
wish to feel loved by others
and the thoughts wish to belong in
greater volumes than what I can
self-publish.

I pretend this is simple.
I wake up and sometimes, I smile.
sometimes I stumble on my way
and answer the morning greetings as if
the kick in my heels is anything but
contrived.

I pretend this is simple.
the pretentious moments with ex-classmates
who strive in their own right to make it seem worthwhile.
the thoughts that flicker by when I am bragging up
my self, my career– they linger in the moment because of
great hesitation.

I pretend this is simple.
the way I try to remove the pressure of the moment
with a faint attempt at relaying it all back to an experience.
it doesn’t work, most of the time, but the trials and tribulations
continue.

I pretend this is simple.
the way I hide, and then come out, and then dance, and then shudder in silence
to parse the extrovert through the buttonholes of this introvert is
beyond difficult.

I pretend this is simple.
to live life as if it has meaning, as if it has purpose,
as if with a destiny, a map, una carta, a plan, a heavenly design, anything.
and then I fade into that delirious state
while I’m as healthy as an ox
and realize it does not.

I pretend this is simple.
and twenty three years of it, in comparison to what
it took the galaxies to draft up their plans
their round-robins of who gets to explode next
of where to plant random intelligent life
and where to leak carbon
and where to instill platypuses and where to throw raccoons
and where to be joyous and where to be green and where to be
nothing
is a wonderful achievement, I think.