Devious minds, intimacy in kind, we
struggle with familiar strangers. All of us,
each one of them.

Discomfort is obvious, bewildering.
The greater the distance, the closer
it comes to moral destruction.

Ironically, we have lost so much faith.
Confidence or insecurity, one in the same,
depending on the view.

Wisdom found in the history books; rarely
do we crack the spines. Politicians and thieves now
the easiest marks. Poor excuses.

Everybody wants something, and somebody,
to blame. Vast nations of nobodies remain
unaccountable for perennial shame.

You can’t tell me anything, anytime,
that will make a difference. Why
would I listen?

I can be nothing, or nobody, to you
so I need not provide a reason. Fact.
Few have the information

Nobody knows. Few care. I am silent.
What can I say? Still you ask. Requests
fall on closed ears.

Noise. Always with the queries,
insecurity always there. Ever-present.
We know so little of each other.

I too have questions. Always. I often do
Tell me about your problems,
tell me about you

© 2018 j.g. lewis

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
– Emily Dickinson