i don’t wanna be a shred
of a pencil on your page
and fade-worthy
the very least i deserve is ink, i think
preferably something like a gel thingy
with one a them nice grips
because… because… because
yeah, i’m doing just fine

i used to be able to hang out without
somebody trying to get in my face
or trying to get in my pants
or trying to change my mind
because everyone seems to know
so much better than me
how it is
and why i’m wrong
when all i want is to sit here
and write a little poem for someone
that made me feel good today

but instead, yeah,
here’s this one from my side of the fence
telling me i sold out
just cuz i’m not nineteen anymore
just cuz i’m not naive anymore
just cuz i saw enough fucked up things to know
that my political platform buddies
make me wanna scream

because we don’t know how to listen
and we are three-year-olds throwing
temper tantrums of hope and peace and love
telling each other that we respect
each other
that we have all the answers

and no one seems to get the fact that
that factory man in nebraska don’t wanna know
shit about nothin’ but the bread on his table
and the bible under his belt

so please don’t write me down in pencil
don’t make me erasable
paint me in reds, whites and blues
because i’m one of the last ones
that gives a shit about more than ideals


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