Expiration Dates

What was it that I was
Or at least pretended to be?
Oh that's right
A person.
One that writes feelings and emotions down
One that expresses ideas, opinions, thoughts
One that doesn't need pretentious notions
Or large, obscure words that have survived
Their expiration date.

Did I write about how life passed me by?
How I lived a inane, repetitious life
Doing nothing more than what was required to
Survive another day.
Or did I write about how life ran me over
And as she pulled me along, trapped under her wheels
I occasionally grabbed hold of someone along the way
And pulled them down, scraping their knees and elbows
The tears in their eyes said they wanted to help, but
I'm sure in the long run
It was best I let them go.

Was there a time when I had no emotions?
No really, I'm curious.
Zero emotional control is more like it.
More my style.
Playing the fool and savant to anyone who would listen.
Forging strong bonds, only to test that strength
Was I alive?
Was I in thoughts, or even remembered?
Will this be remembered?
Was I liked? Loved? Loathed? Livid? Lucid?
Was I?
Well?

Good lies are believed.
Great lies are entertainment.
My life is just entertainment for someone.
Unfortunately, it's not me.
I know the truth, and it's the 5 o'clock news.
Such is living.
Such is dying.
The art of words on a box of images.

The power is not in reading
The power comes through writing.
Watching and discussing hold no comparison
To feeling and experience.
So please tell me
What was it I was,
Or at least what you let me pretend to be?
Oh that's right...
A writer,
Alive.