We all pick our noses
And it’s gross.
The key is,
To be spotted the least,
Rarely chided,
And often washed.
We say the things we wanted to say
Ten minutes later, when we’re in the car,
Pounding the steering wheel —
Like that’ll help.
Unless the car is the Delorian from
“Back to the Future”—
Which is unlikely.
We all wish we could trade lives with our pets
Once in a while.
Because sleeping wherever the sun hits best
And licking oneself in public
Are joys we will seldom know.
We weigh ourselves down
with the girth of our gods,
The depth of our demons,
And the mesmerizing and lonesome
Space of ceiling just above our beds.
We are not who we want to be
Nor who we hoped to be,
But we laugh out loud in empty rooms
And stare into the bathroom mirror,
To practice thanking the academy.
We are fickle, funny, and profoundly strange.
Accomplishing little, sacrificing less.
Aware of mortality, yet daring to be fat.
Desperately wanting to get over ourselves,
But secretly longing for someone who never will.
And as I sit at this stoplight, in this classroom, in this restaurant,
With gentle rain crashing to the sidewalk outside,
Thinking of people, listening to people,
Watching stories brush by my face like a silent storm,
I realize I probably don’t love my parents enough
And I have no idea why.
And I believe none of us has any idea what the hell we’re doing here.
But we don’t seem to go away. And we smile briefly at one another.
And we are all a little quieter when it rains.
The key is,
To be spotted the least,
Rarely chided,
And often washed.
We say the things we wanted to say
Ten minutes later, when we’re in the car,
Pounding the steering wheel —
Like that’ll help.
Unless the car is the Delorian from
“Back to the Future”—
Which is unlikely.
We all wish we could trade lives with our pets
Once in a while.
Because sleeping wherever the sun hits best
And licking oneself in public
Are joys we will seldom know.
We weigh ourselves down
with the girth of our gods,
The depth of our demons,
And the mesmerizing and lonesome
Space of ceiling just above our beds.
We are not who we want to be
Nor who we hoped to be,
But we laugh out loud in empty rooms
And stare into the bathroom mirror,
To practice thanking the academy.
We are fickle, funny, and profoundly strange.
Accomplishing little, sacrificing less.
Aware of mortality, yet daring to be fat.
Desperately wanting to get over ourselves,
But secretly longing for someone who never will.
And as I sit at this stoplight, in this classroom, in this restaurant,
With gentle rain crashing to the sidewalk outside,
Thinking of people, listening to people,
Watching stories brush by my face like a silent storm,
I realize I probably don’t love my parents enough
And I have no idea why.
And I believe none of us has any idea what the hell we’re doing here.
But we don’t seem to go away. And we smile briefly at one another.
And we are all a little quieter when it rains.
No comments:
Post a Comment