Pushback

By striving for honesty
I push people away
Apparently

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Is that why I'm so alone?
I want to live the artist's life
Of complete vulnerability
And transparency
(As if that were a good thing)

But really, there seems to be no choice
I don't have any options
Because
To breath is to write
Is to check myself in the mirror
And those around me

It makes for a sad and isolated existence
When I take the measure of everyone I see
Even though I admire all that I write about
And enjoy the time spent together

What will become of me...
By June?
In ten years?
On my deathbed?
Will I still be alone?

That would be a horror

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Living honestly is the only way I know how to

But it is truly brutal