How cliché we are,

When the only satisfaction we get is in being indirect.

Our skies are pink

And rain falls from the grass

Into our clenched fists.

Everything is a contradiction here.

My mind is inedible cotton candy.

We bathe in cartoon water,

Hold hands by a stream of taboo …

            And yet we never touch.

How cliché we are.

How false, how overbearing!

Do you ever speak to the sky?

            You, and me … we’re all part of someone’s

            Inventive concoction.

            We were placed into a blender,

            And set on high.

It’s simply fluke that my arm is not your leg.

How cliché

Are these emotions?

Do they even exist?

We’re technological pioneers of adolescence,

Floating around in the lava lamp of time.

            This is not a rehearsal!

            (Yet I’ve no script or stage makeup)

You sketch thumbnail-sized anarchists 

The way Disney sketched Mickey Mouse.

We’re all going to die,

So why not die in revolution?

Kick up your feet

And smile,

Because we may be cliché,

But it gives us a connection.