Author: Faithless Juliet PM
Truth be told I would rather work as a waitress for the rest of my life.Rated: Fiction T - English - Poetry - Words: 668 - Reviews: 22 - Favs: 3 - Published: 02-27-06 - id: 2122054
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Drive home across the underbelly of some black cloud formation.
Another storm to busy my windshield wipers with -
and I'm tired,
too tired to think,
or blink at the yellow lights
(how I run them)
downwithout a care
(or maybe a clue.)
The conclusion that I have
at me is
Black and blue
like the never-ending marks on my arms
(it could be a deadly disease mutating,
I could be dying in all actuality)
maybe I am.
maybe I'm not.
got an eight thousand dollar investment
(otherwise nicknamed education)
to back my theory up with -
the reality that I have no idea what I'm doing.
The busy fumble;
I feel kind of like I'm ganna throw up
but you take me out to dinner
storm cloud Monday evening
to celebrate my good fortune
(depleting good mood!)
I feel like sleeping for a hundred years
(put me between the pages of that fairy-story,
I really wouldn't mind a palace,
or all that ivy
truth be told I'd rather work as a waitress for the rest of my life
(poor, if that's what you want to call it)
rather then sell myself
into a life
that I would
even if it is the Americana dream -
or the fact that I'm the first person in my family to graduate from college -
the knowledge I've gained
to present my means with.
I'm not afraid of
dying with the pages filled up with thoughts -
sometimes I just want to speak,
even if what I say makes no sense -
I just want to say it
and to have you not look at me like I'm some kind of
(I am who I am -)
what I am,
just a girl in a uniform -
grass stains on my sneakers;
cats (like children and lovers)
to curl up with each night when the air gets too cold
to not burrow under the blankets.
I have some kind of outer shell
like glitter skin
that you touch,
(tender is my second middle name)
(the one my mother gave me)
only this one you bestow graciously.
or the complexity is so simple that it melts at the bottom of your hand.
to grow weak
I put on a great smile,
or great show
depending on how you look at it.
Maybe I want to live without living;
the best parts and fabricate my memoir with ideals
(metaphor vs. reality)
the calamity of choosing between the two.
When I get home I'm still shaky -
I teeter from foot to foot and listen to the silence of all this sound.
Conclusion with the face of graduation
that they turn me fragile like gum
- c.h.e.w.e.d -
to it's tasteless centerfold)
after-life mint with a great warranty -
I've always needed a guarantee for something to make me jump ahead
(arms flailing into the "somewhat.")
I can't help but think about Jessica
(the where's and when's)
that's the shitiest part about death,
not knowing what could have happened had they lived
(or in her case thrived.)
I feel kind of like a weed in the mouth of a great sunrise
(a violation of balance)
a walking dream asleep to the outcry -
nearly flunked out of high school
but graduates with Directors Honor Role at the top of her class -
she's going somewhere fast
(too fast for me maybe)
too much conclusion -
I'm better with weather,
storms come and go;
show their damage to be mended
(a girl good with her hands can fix things -
or people -
when she needs to)
but conclusions with no horizons are too unforeseeable.