Third Person

He speaks metaphorically to avoid dealing direct, shows the unknown hand he’s against too much respect, writes about his bravery though it’s no where to detect or talks in the third person like this I'd expect. Going on about himself like it’s happening to someone else, distanced from reality his distracted mind plays stealth, deflecting the desperation straying from his fails, because being himself is hell with his fractured mental health. You’d think he would try to save it but instead he stays away, doesn’t acknowledge the slaying, writing on as if okay, creates a situation where he has the final say, when really just a coward putting himself on display. He must have found comfort writing this because it's structured, a new angle on the old tale nothing more than a distraction, because as soon as it finishes he's back to a spineless buster, hiding from conflict comforting another poor reaction. How long will he go on paving this path of pathetic, in a dangerous direction purposely neglected, there’s the renegade he speaks of, self elected, walking towards death being naturally selected. But deep in this metaphor he doesn’t change a thing, in his head it’s someone else or a tale of some thing. To know what happens next go back where this poem begins, now knowing what life is when your name is Nick Trim.