Almost Random

Why do I say, “It’s gonna suck,”
When it’s raining outside,
And I’m here in the car,
Stuck.

But when I make a run for it,
A mad dash to save the book in my hand,
And the tiny shreds of maturity I’ve built so far,
I smile, giggle even.

It’s pure hypocrisy in itself,
As much as this poem is,
A sublime denial
Of the plain and the obvious truth.

Oh, the irony of it
Both comic and tragic
The ineptitude to write out something hidden
Through one of the sublime,
In the fear of being found out.

It’s almost lying, except not really.
Almost betrayal though not entirely.
Almost random.
Just barely.

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