J.D. or: why i never understood myself or anybody else

i'm having another dream about falling off a cliff
there are children in a field
If A Body Catch A Body
i am sitting back in my classroom
summer time in the nineties
Coming Through the Rye
and that isn't quite accurate,
it may have been just a few years ago
and i am not quite Holden, Caulfield
but the bond i felt was incredibly close.

so i am sitting with my back to the doorway
there are one, or three girls walking slowly
there are two, or seven cigarettes stubbed out
on the concrete next to me.
and you will not come over, tonight,
well you might, but it's doubtful.
i sit, alone on my mattress fuming
and thinking of air.
there is nothing left of the sunset,
we sat like simmering hermits,
i am in love with you,
sweet Juliana, and you are my best friend
which i have a way of confusing,
and i am not quite Holden, Caulfield
i will never be the Catcher,
we will never be together.

when i was little i wore a hat pulled to my eyes
and the shadows would complete my disguise,
i looked overly useless, yet no one could dismiss
at least i still had a spark of life.
there were days when i felt so strange,
my little six year old body couldn't deal
with the change, my whole house destroyed
and back on the road,
i never really dealt with that pain.
when you look at me i feel alone,
what an awful thing for me to write
in such an anonymous poem,
and when i see some people,
i think horrible things,
I need to Catch myself, sometimes.

confusion is a convenient friend.
i would break a window pane, with my hand
but it would do very little, to take away what
you've said;
"so how are the girlfriends today".
i have a father who will never understand me,
i don't much know myself,
so i can't blame the man who,
always left us for the bottle or book
while me and Holden went for a stroll.

i look at a cloudless sky and it leaves me wanting.
stare at a crowd of girls and feel close to nothing,
i could gaze at myself in a mirror all day,
and see characters, yet little else.
my mother the stuffy sweater,
she raised my half-well,
but i will always resent her,
and all of the Phonies will keep having their day,
and i've yet to walk away.