There’s a problem, you see.
(Though of course, you don’t, you can’t, because your eyes aren’t mine.)
A friend, a friend, that’s all,
Let me rephrase that; start over.
A friend of mine, quite dear to me,
Has a problem. An issue of sorts.
And I was wondering, maybe, perhaps, if you could—
I guess that was a little too direct.
There’s a person, won’t say who,
And I’m rather concerned about
He.—Where was I, again?
Right. My friend. Yes. Well.
He’s a little, how might we call it,
Scatterbrained? (No, not literally.
His neurons are still intact, thankyouverymuch.)
Come to think of it, Saturday isn’t exactly right either.
Is it then, social anxiety?
He isn’t too great at explaining himself.
And each time he tries, he feels. Ashamed.
Shame’s the word. From all the faults and stumbles.
From all the inconsistencies and malapropisms.
From all the miniscule mistakes that no one truly catches,
And the shame layered like skins of an onion,
Layered and layered until a thin film of tears forms.
Throbbing tears of mortification and raw pain.
And he can’t tell any more if the fresh tears are from the onion,
Or the crying.
But if he gets carried away and forgets he’s speaking,
His ideas become coherent, cogent,
And they coalesce into—into, into. Into what?
It’s not, and I won’t—
There isn’t anything you can do about it
There’s nothing to be done.