Subterfuge

Forgive the poet
he's not me
He feels things
that I am not meant to be.

Wounded and bandaged
I am left to reel
while he saunters with indifference
and begins another reckless journey.

Thoughts are his blanket
and sleep is a bromide
Insomnia is my nuisance
vain is a functional life.

Confusions are his comfort
transgressions are his habits
Cigarettes butts are my problems
Empty glasses and a smoky carnage.

Love is him
guilt is me
song is him
woe, is me.