The Idea of Me

The Idea of Me


A Poem by Robert Anthony Kerr
© August 2002

Do you love me?
Or do you love the idea of me?
Is it really me that you want?
Or is it we that you want?
Is it essential for you to live with me?
Or survive alone in despair without me?

Know these things
Before you open your mouth and let your tongue
proclaim you a fool.
Or believe it’s ‘aight because of a squeeze of my tool.
Because I’ve been hurt too many times,
Countless times
To let the idea of me,
The thought of me
The want of me
The need of me
The dream of me
Confuse you into confirming to yourself,
the love of me.

I'm more than a face,
A body and a job
Its not about the dimes that jingle
that everyone calls me Bob.
I'm not superficial
but romantic and kind
I ignite all your senses
I leave my past behind
But still,
your mind tells you to STOP.
The heart never listens
So all sanity it drops.
Because you claim you love me.
But you still really don’t know me.
What you really love is...
The idea of me.

So what if you are stationed in the Finance and Alone Department?
I don’t really give a shit, I’ve made too many deposits
And you’ve had too many withdrawals
Bankrupt of any passion you see me with a surveyors eye.
But I need you to excavate me
To drill deep down into my soul
Deep, deep, deep.
And deeper still...
Until you can see the very fabric of me
So put me under microscopic scrutiny
Until you have a map of me.
Lay me flat on a table and trace lines on me.
Extract me, dissect me, weight my emotions pound for pound.
And still…
All you have...
is the idea of me.

You don’t understand me do you?
I can see you exercise patience
Coupled with a little indifference
As your conscience confirms
That all I’m saying to you is true.
But let me break it down for you.
Ending your moments upon moments of
mental anguish,
Physical despair
emotional probing.

What am I to you?
The idea of me?

I, I, I, I, I, I am more than just
A warm body on a cold winter’s night.
The installer of a lightbulb to make your home bright.
The phone call you make from boredom at work
The man you complain to when your brother’s a jerk.
The release you feel when your loins do so ache
The correcting officer at your every mistake
The shoulder you cry on when times get bad
When you so mad
So sad
And then disappear when the world becomes glad.
Is it me you love?
Or the idea of me?

To love me is to hate me.
To desecrate me. . .
To annihilate me
To want to destroy me on occasion.
Given the persuasion
And the varied situations
The complications
Altercations
And every word for every deed
So...again, for the first time and the last time.
Is it me that you love?
Or is it...
the idea of me.