Someday, someone is going to ask,
"How are you doing?"
And I will just stare back,
Like I always do,
And say, "Fine."
And it'll be the end.
There will come a day,
When someone will ask it,
And I will know what to say.
And I will say everything.
And that will be the last time.
Everything is a controversy.
You are born into it.
Before you were born,
"Does this person have a right to live?"
And everyone else said,
"Well, what about the mother's right?"
"What about her?"
"What about the dad?"
"What about the rest of us?"
And it all became meaningless.
But, you were born nonetheless.
And we still can't decide who was right,
Or whose rights were more important.
What was the question really about?
That is Politics.
It's nothing but words.
People try to put purpose into it.
Or feelings. Or other people.
But it's nothing.
Yet, we can't even run away from it.
We're surrounded by this need
To be individualized by opinions.
Don't you feel so special?
Now that everyone heard what you have to say.
Are you done?
Will you ever stop talking?
They made everything political.
Everyone wants a name.
Life just goes on,
And we're fighting to be Somebodies.
Some do. Some don't.
When it happens, or if it doesn't,