Supposedly writing the perfect story

I’m at a place where the cultures are in shockPeople are really loudAnd collectively they sound as if they’re all shoutingListen closely and you can tell apart the high pitched voice of childrenThey don’t know a poet is standing among themLet alone valuing poetry

They’re all inside their own storiesOwn problemsWhether they need a larger tableThey activate the full force of staffOr perhaps that manWho could have been an older brotherBut instead became an object of desire

I feel alive when I writeAnd it’s like I breatheI have my computer in front of meThe writer inside the crowdThe crowdsThey surround me

Tea and dessertThis place feels like a traditional asking for her hand happeningAlthough it’s too much of a crowded familyHere I am documenting everything

It looks like a dinner table is setThen once again those tables look better when they’re apartThe noise quiet downI came here to be an alienA place that no one would really see me

There is a date happening in front of meThis place it seems is very traditionalI like where I’m sitting and still have my sight with meAs if it would ever leave me

I feel as if I’m the directorAnd look at her hidden armsHe is holding his legs togetherTrying to be properIs this the majority of the crowd that I avoid

Once again the tables are on the moveToo much money and that much traditionThe people I never would want to share the same roomAre around me

I’ll look in front of me nowJust be part of the windowThey’ll never seeAlong with my untouched tea

I’m the collusionThe unbelonging of culture shockUncultured against unreasoning

That table remains emptyMy fingers move on the keysAnd no one sees meIn front of me is a pending story of marriageWhere once in the futureTwo conventional parents sitting togetherAnd telling a story of how it was all meant to beThey are both in the phase of vanitySupposedly writing the perfect story