a simple poem: confession and profession

I’ve been waiting too long
to really write
wanting to write
something profound
forgetting to realize that
the profoundest thing possible
for me to profess
(passing over the potential
presumptuousness
inherent herein
both wish and response)
is what
I know to be true.
And what I know to be true
I can share best
primarily by
telling my story
not those that
come from a thousand other
imagined, idealized versions
of myself
or the stories from other people
actual or imagined
(which is actually a different kind
of factual)
envied or pitied
living or gone on
to I-honestly-don’t-know-what.
Let me be clear: I’m a believer in fiction.
But there is also
such a thing
as fiction
that’s rooted
in the truth
recalling
when it comes to
composition
Thoreau’s
“one great rule.”
So.
What I know to be true
is the story I have to tell
(tucked away in other
tales, perhaps, but
nevertheless
authentic)
while neither coveting
nor silencing
nor ignoring those other stories, too –
least of all the story
that should come
from you.

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