Me, I'm fine, I'm
I'm beginning to realize: this world isn't exactly a blank canvas for my taking
it's not made of snowy empty pages waiting for my kiss, my genius
I'm beginning to resent: it's waiting for yours.
I'm not meant to be extraordinary, am I? Much as I'd like to be
(And, oh, I'm delusional—I'd do best as a businessman's wife,
making babies and cosmopolitans, lounging
in a silk bathrobe, and smiling—but that's another story)
But you, you're brilliant, and as much as I'd love to hate you
my archetypal hero, and you make my ink-splotch life's meaning crystal clear
(Rorschach-style, giving me another view)
with your beautiful broad hands and your smile, and I
couldn't live without you, bastard, so
I guess my epic life plan
is out; I'll watch yours instead, and I won't even mind, because
You're waiting for my kiss.
You are my genius.