My life is nothing more than an attempt

to avoid finding myself 92 years old dying

in front of a television.

My life is an avoidance of people who prefer

MapQuest to Google maps and a

search for those who prefer their brain instead.

My life is keeping accordance with

the way flowers move towards the sun.

I am not what society wants me to be

and therefore I am nothing.

They don’t know Descartes and they won’t know me.

Sometimes I read Prufrock and feel better about

the universe but still find myself unable to

disturb it.

Not once have I picked dare over truth.

For this I feel ashamed of my incessant need for

honest behavior.

I’ve always apologized even when I was right.

People’s secrets fill me.

Left alone with my own

I spew them to the sun.

My back aches as I try to reach

the tree’s branches but I

I will always stand, at least intrinsically,

as tall as I can.

My life is more than getting coffee at three and

practicing a routine of plays that will never occur in the correct fashion

in actual life.

I see us running from nothing but

ourselves on a rubber track until I reach

the realization their running

is just a reflection off the window beyond me

and what is in front of me is

in actuality behind.

Isn’t everything in life just

a metaphor for life itself?

I open windows to let in life

yet recently I’ve taken to climbing out of them.

I’ve become tired enough to speak

and heavy enough to fly above.

I no longer attempt

I fling myself at whatever will eventually lead me to later on.

Where I won’t be watching a television but

will be finding myself astonished

the leaves are still turning green in April.