Not That Poet

I am not that poet.
The roses are red climbing crystal stairs kind.
No.
These are not those times.
And I refuse to be depicted,
As a poet mentally detached from reality.
Or have it discovered,
I sit deluded to excuse truth to fiction...
What I observe to witness,
Is beyond belief.
My ears are opened and my eyes?
They don't lie to me.

I am to be felt.
Ignore what I feel.
Choose what you wish to read.
But...
I want to be experienced.
As if fresh air to breathe.
And...
I will do my best,
To upset your choice to believe...
Living in denial keeps you protected,
From a 'truth' to see and others do as well.
Although poetically speaking,
I do understand and comprehend...
Why many these days,
Prefer to fiction their lives to live.
Since what is going on to face as is,
Is enough to try drugs to get away from it.

Truth to live it these days,
Has normalized craze.
And choosing fiction as an escape,
Has driven children out of their minds.
And...
As truth from them to hear it?
Becomes clearer for me to see and accept.
They are closer to reality than most folks!
Folks walking around in public.
Talking to themselves.

And as a writer of poetry,
I rather do that privately.
To know I control my own conversations.
Without offending myself or beliefs!
Intentionally speaking, of course.

'Yeah, okay, whatever.'

Excuse me?

'Of course.'