Semi-Broken or Too Open

Paint walk, food words,
mimicking something too old
being too childlike, there’s only around one thousand who aren’t:
they are invisible on islands somewhere.
I don’t dare release anything to anyone.
What is vulnerability but a metaphor? Who even talks like this?
I thought of one thousand others today, though not those ones,
and all of them hated me, and I try not to dwell,
and I try not be a baby to a chat room.
A man in the shopping centre laughed along with me:
I am too high to be working, which isn’t right,
semi-broken or too open for the culture or administrations
or love. It is something I doubt. I want the edge off that
like this: mixed purples on my latest canvas: we good, boy.