that familiar dejected clash

"Word Count"

by Antoine.

Here comes another social situation,

an unannounced challenge of word count:

the more you say, the more she'll like you.

The combatants are yourself,

the girl you want to impress

(synonymously, the one you never can),

and the obligatory "other guy"

who won't stop spitting sentences.

A moment of silence arrives:

it's your responsibility to fill it with your vocal chords;

but naturally you fumble and

her face ... and you try to think but ...

her laugh ... and ummm ...

and very little actually comes out.

You've missed your turn.

Somehow it repeats like this, day after day,

and you've never learned how to prevent it.

Time after time you go in confident

and come out sulking thinking

your word count was less than satisfactory,

feeling that familiar dejected clash

of humiliation and regret and kick-yourself

and working calculations in your head.

You only get farther behind

with every conversation,

simply because your mind wasn't built

for speaking:

your fountain flows through print.

Because of this

you are forgettable

and always plan to be.