conceited and overconfident of knowledge, but, poorly informed and immature*
embodying the definition, I lie in bed, quiet, thinking,
face down, shirtless, in a pair of cheap purple *******,
breathing in a smell--cotton sheets, sweat, and coconut
I am not nothing, not miserable, but not happy
I am not frightened or bewildered by anything
I am an elder amongst the young
I'm a youngster still, to everyone.
all trash talk,
not new news.
I just sort of quietly revel in the experiences
unravelling above me in a floating memory
adding up my mistakes,
until all pressed into me
+ that doing the right thing hurts, sometimes,
+ people are going to do things that you can't
and still that's okay, but don't get discouraged
if you work hard and get nothing out, that just
means something, that if you like it, fight for it
I don't know.
I also learned this year not to trust the bad liars,
that sometimes people are bland, but even still,
it doesn't mean death, and it's really going fine.
I learned this is as smart as I'm going to get,
so maybe I should try a little harder with it.
turning on my back, I flick an imaginary cigarette,
I put on a little blush + a long-sleeved black shirt
then I did what I was supposed to, maybe for me.