I Am Hiding In My Tower

I Am Hiding In My Tower: A Prose Poem (for my Shadow)

I’m really good at being unseen.
I can walk down the street in broad daylight and not be noticed, if I want to.
I can slip through a crowd with barely a ripple.
I am the observer, and I see all that goes on, but I don’t make any waves.
I don’t make a sound.
If they don’t see me, they can’t hurt me.
They can’t bully me or pick on me.
I’m just another middle-aged hippie in a state of live-and-let-live, down to Earth people.
I don’t have to pay a bunch of taxes.
I can do what I want and get away with it.
I drive exactly five miles over the speed limit, and never ever get stopped by the cops.
I go with the flow.
I don’t bitch or complain.
I don’t send the food back if it’s cold or wrong.
I don’t want to make a fuss.
When things go wrong, I go to my room – my sacred space, my tower – and deal with my shit.
I don’t call a friend, even when I want a sympathetic ear, because, well, they’re all busy with their own stuff, and I’ll get over it soon.
I have tools.
I’ve got this.
I don’t make waves.
I want praise, not blame.
I’m a Good Girl. Right?
I do want to share my wisdom.
I want people to read my books.
But I hate asking them.
They should just be able to find it on Amazon or something.
I would rather clean up cat hurl than go ask bookstore owners to carry my books.
That feels like a unique form of torture.
If you can’t see me, you can’t tell me NO.
I can’t be rejected if I don’t ask.
I don’t want to bug you for help – even when I’ve paid in advance for the support.
You must be busy with other clients, who need you more than I do. Right?
If I deserve the readers, the clients, the support, or a friend’s listening ear, why then, the Universe will send them to my door.
Never mind that my place is hidden behind that invisibility spell, obscured by trees, guarded by a pittie mutt and two fierce cats and a houseful of tall strong men.
You can’t reach me in my tower.
But hey, where are you?
It’s kinda lonely up here.