A Son’s Lament (Let be, or not let be)

Let be. I have come so far, skimming stone,
Do you know how hard it is? Do you know what it takes to Quickly make the mind follow. Forcing the pschye into submission. Get the troops out of Norway and into Denmark; and, oh yeah, I see dead people.
I had the best minds of my generation waste their time
At University. Looked at me with nervous pecking glances
Staring through the side of their head.
Eyes furtive, snatching, stealing peeks at my
text books.
“Oh, what’s he studying?”
“New book he’s reading?”
“Words, words, words?”
“Poor little ham.”
“Did daddy die.”
Yes, daddy die.
“Mommy not love daddy?”
Doesn’t seem like.
“Quit the semester? Your grades will fall, average will drop. Probably get taken off the jousting team. You still fencing? What’s that sound I hear coming from apartment 2B?”
Old joke, same tale; got tale. I am in college
Do not want to think about death, or responsibility,
In any order. A Kingdom? Not me, Gwenevere you must
Know that is true, as most of time is spent praying to your hips.
Not me. Look at the mirror… Not him. Changing my clothes.
There goes my notebook. Ah, black. What a colour.
Does it fit? Does it not. Here I am! I am back! I am here. It is me.
Why is everyone having a party? And why am I invited?
I saw this.
I remember this from my dad’s shiva.
This tuna sandwhich was at my dad’s shiva.
This tuna sandwhich, Horatio. I knew him well.
“That little pecker, can go right back to Wittenburg.”
“Yes, he can.”
“I try to like him.”
“It’s hard.”
“It’s so hard.”
“A retort.”
“He’s got a retort for everything.”
“Frankly, it’s annoying.”
“Boo-hoo I’m the heir apparent. I’m gonna be King.”
“Cry me a warm little tub with epsom salt.”
Do they realize it’s right in front of my face?
Play it cool. Play it cool, three more days and
I’m outty. I audi. Back to Wittenburg. Back to classes.
Back to Jousting, and late night cards, burlesque shows
Gwenevere: Gwen! I will not pass out this time talking about Ophel (you say ‘awful’ that’s funny),
I’m over her. I am so over her. Don’t touch that—don’t touch my notebook! Hey!
It’s one letter to her. I wrote one, okay, fifteen letters.
I’m sorry. I get fixated, you know me.
I’ve got OCD.
“What’s OCD.”
It hasn’t been invented yet, as a term, but in philosophy we call it ‘the slightly more annoying disorder.’
“We do hope you’ll stay; both father and mother require it.”
Father and mother? require it. Well, if my father somehow comes back as a ghost and tells me to remain here to avenge his death, or something crazy like that, then yes, you will both have required it. Right now, my mom requires it, and you’re on auto pilot (dipshit).

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