the sun drifts hazily through the sky
helped along by the infinite patience
of the branches and leaves outside
of this dirty, tiny window
there is an art in the way that paint peels
a certain poetry in the cracks on the sill
that just makes me think of old things
like the thoughts I've let wither into age
this disease of dormancy is rotting me
but I'm no different, really
than the young man in a picket line
holding up his sign because there's a girl
bouncing beside him with her proactive breasts
and he just might get laid if not shot
yeah that's me, doing what looks like poetry
and in the end it'll kill me or immortalize me
I'm not one for placing bets so I grip tightly
onto some semblance of reality, just in case
but reality, reality is cheap
I have new realizations with every moment
I can't be your breathing machine
I don't quite make the grade
but the grading never stops
in a perpetual string of tests I never fail to botch
because I'm not the queen of anything
just a mime in the streets playing make believe
throw me a handful of pity and I'll tell myself lies
it's because you see the greatness I'll be
but at night I lay quietly and mull over
the great things I should have been
poetic is something I'll never be
it all becomes more meaningless
with every day that I sleep my way through
so I whisper my screams into the drone of this fan
find power in my motionless struggle
and outside the window there's yet another sunset
threatening to drag me down with it
because another round of f***ing nothing
has just passed me by
it's pretty sad when the earth turns
at a faster rate than you can find the energy to watch