I'm not the conversationalist who will fill awkward voids
after being ignored, diminished, used up and forgotten
shouldered in the cold like overlooked produce gone rotten.
I'm not the fly that annoys, nor the yellowed, shunned Polaroid.
I'm not your UNWELCOME mat, your exasperated why? sigh
when I've dared to utter a bold reply you disqualify.
Like yellow bile, you spit out a condescending smile
meant to mortify, watch me cower in the shower and cry.
I've come alive, go ahead roll your eyes but I won't comply
with one who defines me a necessary apology:
the cheap circus calliope to your esteemed Tchaikovsky.
I'm no longer the bulls-eye, fall guy for what you personify.
Let me demystify the goodbye of the slamming back door:
You'll have to find a new eyesore to penalize and ignore.