The short, the longing,
the waiting for belonging.
Wanting to, what no-o-
ne possibly can know.

Just sleep, just work,
just kiss, just smirk.
Don't judge, don't speed,
at times follow, others lead.

Listen. You can do what you feel is right.
All else, above, below, is beyond your might.

Grab your gripe.
Inspect its type.
Is it small enough to not need
any way around it?
Is it big enough to down your mood?

Bend the thought to see the good
that's hiding in between the lines.

Road works ahead?
A walk just might refresh your head.

Caught a flu?
A break from work
could revitalize you.

Stuck behind a slow chauffeur?
Driving slow is less expensive.

Try your own as research has shown:
bending the small affects almost all.

I was hoping
I'd be slaying
bears for gold
at twenty-six years old.

I'm still playing cardboard
swords on socks with stubs and
watching cartoons on saturday,
mourning.

You told me we'd be able
to do anything, no fear.
With heads on kitchen tables,
we all just want to disappear.

You've cleaned your room twice
and arranged every knickknack.
The endless catching of mice
won't **** you the wolf pack.

If everyone took
a look at themselves
we wouldn't need bother
to judge one another.

It was not an easy choice,
to say the least, I'll add.
But as it seems, boys,
my chair's the best friend I've ever had.

We've been through the lot
together. As if my final fate
was to sit and stay up late
and make cognitions hot.

I did all a man does with his time,
from eating, beating, drinking,
sleeping, farting and stinking
to coming up with this dumb rhyme.

That's why you've won the prize, hon.
You're the best, my lovely strandmon.

Stuck, we float in viral.
We go up and spiral
bot, out of control.
We're locked down,
detached from the whole.

As currencies, letter z's,
maiden names, money in frames,
okay signs and cryptic mines,
we're all destined to an end,
sticky entertainment.