I’d like to write some words all about life and philosophy

Or even about the negative impacts of technology

And the additional downscale to our biology.

But I won’t.

I can’t write about feelings I haven’t got

Or something of mine that’s not,

Or the pleas of children in a place far off and hot.

And that’s because I can’t.

Because I’m not clever

And my thoughts don’t float swift like a feather.

My words are rough and shimmerless, like leather,

Shoved in my pocket far from audiences altogether.

But when I’ve got a momentary flow of idea,

I think it over and over till it’s visionary and sold to criteria.

But it never is.

It’s not better than the better of me,

Or ready to be from me to you,

For you to give to them,

From you,

From me.

And I listen to myself all day.

I live with the selfish intents and roadblocks of cement.

I bury their worries and their postal incidences.

After all,

It’s my eyes,

My ears,

My brain,

My heart,

My thoughts,

My feelings,

My unit.

And until I leave this world I bother,

There’s my belongings,

My decisions,

My fears,

My side,

My future,

My story.

And it’s coming from me.

So I’ll stand unsurely and tell you that right now I’m eighteen,

And that’s likely to change in a year,

But I can’t promise you I won’t still be here

Or that I won’t still steer clear.

I can’t say that I’ll still want everything,

And still know how to patch up a hole that finds its way to the ceiling

And continue to feel like a human being.

I’m telling you I might grow tired of growing up,

And show up at your bank and hold you up

While my friends are playing with silly string and throwing up.

I might win a noble prize

And find a reason to bare my face before I cry,

And take the chance to shrink my size and, though they’re little, amount of lies.

You could see me fearless against shine,

Or see me prove my business by showing up time,

After I give up saying the same word as a rhyme.

I could show up years from now

With all sorts of pretty diseases,

And flushed drugs after treasons,

And selling you all this b.s. about “bad” teases.

I can’t promise you’ll never catch me in some place like soho,

Telling you I’m a paid hoe,

That was smart enough to not get caught by the po-po,

And I freed my soul along side a drunk stuck in a pot hole.

But I could be lucky to live my life past this year.

Hear the voice of my children I call dear

After I dance without fear at my wedding I put in cheers.

That was before I lost that last best friends I called for ears,

Who grew up and left their house of broken mirrors.

After I decided to cover up the fact that my eyes weren’t seeing so clear.

I’ll try beg to know the fact from the matter

Or pretend the fact that the matter is far more off than better is better

And try to remember that it’s not really butter

But it taste good on toast.

I’m telling you I’ll be grateful if I ever pass by a cemetery

And not think of the short time before my body has to be buried.

After my bills forbid crossing my forehead and leaving me flustered with fury.

Since my husband always kept his memory and never inspired life long insecurity.

I’ll be happy. Not dreary.

And I’ll expect you to do the same.

Hear me and not listen or listen and think its lame.

I’ll hope you change your phone number and grow bitter before vain

And you’ll do me one better by giving me the story that is marked with my name.

Because it’s not your story and you’ve gotten on the wrong train.