Poem: Things Are Different, Now, Or Feel That Way. at Least

Things Are Different, Now, Or Feel That Way. at Least

Each day
there is more
and less, too,
or it is the same, really,
is not changing
except in my mind,
in what I notice
of each and every
and how and why
the things go the way
that they do.  I don't
have real answers
and my perspective
is nothing special
or substantive.  It is not
even all that certain,
has not been solid
for a long while,
is changing and shifting
and unclear, even in my mind.
I don't have answers
or good questions,
not any longer.
I can't say
that anyone does.
It seems this
is the way, now.
I could be wrong,
that may be
my own assumption
based on misunderstandings
of the altogether wrong things.
The best I can do
is admitting that,
and my ego 
is eager to point out
how rare even that is,
because I am still fragile
and self-absorbed
and wanting to be special.

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