Talking To Myself

Talking To Myself

After hearing this question way too many times,
I guess a formal answer is due.
Since the voices you’re hearing are not in my head,
You’re wondering, “Who are you talking to?”

Call it verbalizing my thoughts or thinking out loud,
To me it’s simply a conversation,
But I suppose because it’s between me and myself,
It requires an explanation.

I’ve been told that I’m eccentric
And love the sound of my own voice.
Since I’m the only one who’ll always listen to me,
I mostly find I have no choice.

My logic is impeccable.
I never fail to make sense.
It eliminates the frustration
Of having to talk to someone that’s dense.

I find I’m never lonely.
In some ways it’s as good as it gets.
And if I need a group discussion
I can always include my pets.

I don’t mind talking to critters.
They don’t give me any flack.
But let me assure you I’m no Dr. Doolittle.
The animals don’t talk back.

My cats are more courteous than people,
And I wouldn’t trade them for love or money.
They keep their comments to themselves.
Maybe they’ll look at me funny.

There you have it, that’s the truth
About my peculiarity.
There’s no way I could have written this poem
Without interviewing me.

So it’s not as if I am crazy.
I don’t have an imaginary friend.
I’ve been talking to myself my whole life…
Don’t expect it to end.

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