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Chardonnay



Self-portrait circa 1999.



November 24, 2013

(When they're quiet, I see myself for what I really am.)

there is nothing about me in particular for my eye to be pleased with. there is not an original bone in my body, as i am only a little bit of this and a little bit of that, which i've plucked from here and there. nor am i alive inside because i've lost my spark sometime before i can even remember, and i can't remember much to be honest. so i try to make you smile, because the only way to feel alive is for me to see myself dance around in the reflection of your worldly, living eyes, as they flicker and flutter with whimsical amusement. but in reality, they look here and there, and not upon me at all.

and even though i'm not as smart as you, and you can run circles around me intellectually, you can't understand me, because i see everything from inside of the hollow remains of a melted, blackened, wax candle, which is all i've ever amounted to. i still pretend that i am someone that matters, and i imagine you laughing at my jokes, and being delighted by my thoughts. i wish that because of me, your eyes would well up with tears from laughing so hard, and that you will have stains in the corners of your eyes when i leave.

when i imagine you and i seek your approval, (for no approval of my own is of any personal significance to me), you enjoy my company when you're with me in my thoughts. though in reality you are far away, because you can't see things the way i do behind my eyes of melted wax.

and how could I expect you to? when your eyes are pure and clear as a sea of Chardonnay in the Springtime? and you have no trouble seeing any normal thing, of which I am not, nor could i ever be normal, had i even wanted to be.

God forbid that i could ever be something good, and God forbid that i could ever be understood, for i am trapped inside of an animal that i despise! i do nothing right, because there is nothing more that i can do without you! and why would anyone desire the company of a stiff old armchair, or an old pillow that's beyond fluffing, and has seen its better days? i cast myself to the floor, and scatter myself as shards, and can only hope that you come along and pick up the pieces, so that I can be made whole once and for all.




2014, self-portrait found after being lost for years

To Useless Shard #1



Cocaine Kiss
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All poems and stories on this web page are (C)Copyright 1996 - 1999 by Ronald Rand.

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