Anonymity

Dear reader,

I do not really know what to call this.

Perhaps it is best labeled as prose,

or an anonymous letter to an anonymous reader,

where the grammar and structure have been contorted

to fit more of what I want it to,

instead of formality.

It originally was intended as a beautiful poem,

rhythmically leaping from word to word,

rhyming scheme of ABAB,

something that would have made Wordsworth proud.

But instead, it is this.

People told me that I would never make it 

as a writer, and even if I did who would have cared?

Profound words must obey a character limit

and include some sort of ingenious 

humorous and spiritual social motif that perpetuates

itself to be replicated, and I do not have that.

All I have is an uncommon thought,

that is reviled by my own peers

and ignored by the growing societal commonality,

which implores the detachment of person and name

and allows anonymity to persist,

instead of creating characters in smoke and mirrors.

The nightmare of recognition propagates itself

to surpass our dreams of invisibility since the screams

of true identification cannot permeate through 

a faded idea of hearsay, and so we grow as 

monsters ransacking through darkness for light.

In brevity I write this to explain

that the anonymity that I am falling from is not desired,

but rather a conscription to fight with the world

by using weapons of designation.

However, the fantasy of my existence 

relies on something more than my signature.

Cheers,

Anonymous