conversations with myself

Mis-communication is a thing 
like a tangible being. 
some hideous fanged monster that’s behind you when you least expect it
when you try to fight against it 
it ends up devouring you faster 
like quick sand
you sink, and sink, and sink into it’s depths 
never to be heard from again. 

it boils down to just sheer emotion anyways 
what’s the point of being wrong?
or right for that matter?
it doesn’t really matter. 
that instant glorification of having your ideas expressed as a true 
will only last as long as the conversation in time, which for that matter 
won’t last forever
you’ll end up searching for certainty in everything that you say, 
every conversation turned battle 
waging wars with words 
every unsuspecting civilian turn caustically, of your onslaught 
you’re merciless 

and here you find me, overturn and war struck. 
waving the white flag, for even though I know what seems to escape you
that i am right, in this matter 
and you are wrong, 
and for this matter, 
it matters not. 
i am done. nonetheless. 

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