In Case I Don't See Ya

Ever since 1998,
ever since Truman Burbank,
I have been a little
obsessed with viewing
my life as a TV show.

I wish it were as simple
as a straight imagining
but I've been paranoid,
I tell you.
I have seriously
considered that it is.

People, as a fact, can't
approach me the same way
they do others, and not
simply, not merely
because I lack most
of the social graces,
but almost as if they
don't want to, as if
they can't, because
of who I am. I've
lived in three parts
of the country; it's
pretty unamimous, right?

The grace I have is
my humor, which I wield
as a shield, and as
a weapon, but most people
probably don't see it
that way. It probably
improves the show, though.

I bounce against
the population,
but always manage
to stick around,
like a bad pop culture
reference.

Find some worth in me!
Let me savor
my misery! Watch
as I pound against
a fabricated horizon!

Who could prove
such a thing?
It doesn't matter
if it's true,
if it's just another
sign of my delusions,
which fester, always
in the backdrop,
a character trait
but never
a diagnosis.
Wouldn't that
spoil the fun?

I am always alone
but the eyes
are always there,
like the billboard
in Gatsby,
a subtle reflection
of my lobotomy.