On the verge of something new again,

How I’m getting so ready again to

Leave the neighborhood

And all its people

Behind

In the back of my head (my

Dusty library filled floor to ceiling

With new old tomes; some forgotten

Some just untold)

It seems like I should write a song about it,

And sell it to a boy teetering on the edge of puberty,

So that he could

Sing it

With his screechy wish-I-was-old-enough-to-see-R-rated-movies-

ALONE sort of voice,

And strike it big with his new Emo hit.

But I’m not at all musical

(so I don’t think it would

work out)

and that’s why I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with a prose-poem,

An odd perspective, and millions of milling aimless unfinished thoughts

With

Nowhere to go.

Miss Mismatched-Sock-Misfit

Fades OUT of little town life

(her little town acquaintances;

they’ll all forget)

when she takes the 7:36 racketbucket

into the city

where she hopes to make it to the top with her

easy-to-relate-to rhymes and the charcoal grime always

on her face.

(you, know) Someday.

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fucked over by the format monster again. real formatting will be posted on my xanga at the top of my user info if anyone cares... yeah, it IS that important. heh. heh... eh...