deepundergroundpoetry.com
Like Me
When I was around 14 and deep in the clutches of mental illness my father called me into the living room.
He asked me to sit on the floor and listen.
He turned on a song I didn’t know, it was bizarre and loud and at the time I found it obnoxious.
He smiled and said “The guy who wrote this is crazy like you, and he is super famous now.”
I remember storming off in a rage,
I wasn’t crazy.
Well I was.
Still, it felt like a blow to the gut.
Now though, that artist is on every playlist I have. I enjoy the absurdness of his music, it reminds me of my own mind.
I realize now that my father wasn’t meaning to insult me,
Rather,
To let me know I was heard.
That other people heard me.
That there were others like me.
He asked me to sit on the floor and listen.
He turned on a song I didn’t know, it was bizarre and loud and at the time I found it obnoxious.
He smiled and said “The guy who wrote this is crazy like you, and he is super famous now.”
I remember storming off in a rage,
I wasn’t crazy.
Well I was.
Still, it felt like a blow to the gut.
Now though, that artist is on every playlist I have. I enjoy the absurdness of his music, it reminds me of my own mind.
I realize now that my father wasn’t meaning to insult me,
Rather,
To let me know I was heard.
That other people heard me.
That there were others like me.
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