Running Underwater

Sitting on the edge with a flattened out bicycle, he’s sipping drinks feigning that he’s still a friend of queers. In the corner of the gathering, brooding tortured soul. Without any prompt, here’s what he’d say:

No one understands my art, nor is it profound. They’ll be disappointed to know that I phone it in from home. What a relief as I let myself down. Standing on the soapbox as I wait for the beep after your dial tone.

They won’t get it anyway you say. “They’re not smart enough.” As if maybe that will help but I’m having fun presenting something for everyone. No one look my way, set upon my insecurity.

Should’ve made friends like the people that I envy. Making the same things but with a better community. Or am I staring down the glass of a shallow directive of average consumer perspective?

Then another man walked over and perused the soaked collection. He complimented the workings but hated the presentation telling me I should boast a whole lot more and sell your cares away.

Forget about your pride. Forget about your joy. You don’t know what you’re doing. So here’s what you gotta do.

I looked at my partner and worried of the end, where we wouldn’t be together and playing on the mend. Overheard the winner saying, “that he’s worried about death, too much futility so I better waste my breath.”

Oh, no, what do I do?

Does my joy gotta die, how long was forever?

Hey, don’t worry, somehow after we’ll still be together.

I’m never leaving you alone.

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