Wilt

One time and I call it an outlier

Two times and I'm staying for show

Three times and I no longer doubt

I'm finding all these patterns

In the actions that felt random before

I said"It's not that serious"

You said"You missed the point

If you don't see it is

Or were you so close to the battle

Did nobody tell you?

We already lost the war"

At the time of my writing this

I am finding that I agree

That I'm not who you used to know

Call it selfish or self-preservation

Or both

I just know I'm letting go

I just know I'm letting go

I just know I'm letting go

One time and I call it an outlier

Two times, I can't say I don't know

Three times and I start with the end

Like the suspense isn't intentional

I acknowledge in all of this

That a part of the problem

Is in the stories that I tell myself

While they're admittedly limited

In their focus and scope

I still can't help but feel

There's no cause for alarm

The plot wanders on by itself

And the good news there is

Is that nobody cares

But that's probably bad news as well

I'm told that is bad news as well

I'm not sure it is