We are so excited to
                COloR
OutSIDe
                                   THE
             LiNeS
That we forget
All of the people
We're
Hurting
When we do.

we smoked our cigarettes
and belted out car duets

never listened to any advice
figured trial and error would suffice

we ate past when we were full
and felt life's strange alluring pull

but we learned it was never enough
to sit back and relax and love

you can't repeat the past, Gatsby
I wish someone would have told me

I have over two-thousand poems
free of the word ****,
so believe me, I don't say ****
because it's fun,
it's an emotion, but yet,
it's a social construct.

Don't tell me he didn't call me and scream,
over and over into the phone,
at 4 am,
"****, I ****** up
I'm so sorry, ****.
I swear to God,
I'll never **** up again,
just please don't ******* leave me
because you're the only ******* thing
I have left."

Because he did.
And sometimes,
after you find out
he just can't keep his lips off of
that girl's face,
the only word that comes out
is ****.

You’re the final rope
that’s been cast out to me
in the Northern Pacific
and I can’t feel my hands,
and I’m pretty sure there’s tiny icicles insides my veins,
and all I can think about is
how peaceful it would be for the ice
to make it’s way to my heart.

I can hardly feel my pulse.
I don’t want the rope,
take it away,
don’t you dare pull me to safety.
What’s my name again?
I can only remember yours.
No, I swear to God himself, I’m never grabbing that rope.
Let me rest and wash ashore far away from you.
I warned you, I always told you, it got harder to breathe
away from you.

I need you,
I need you,
I need you,
but it’s far too cold for me
to want you.

Endowed with amazing powers
to understand the fate
of the average man--counting the hours
between too early and too late,
hoping to see the median
touch the mean.


Keeping expectations just so,
Not very high, not very low
so that everyone can be
a success,
with a middling of effort and
a shade of finesse
we can all wear the cape.


Bouncing from grade to grade
in exact planned order,
mostly white, though looking
South to the border
not for long, we raise
our 1.8 children and live
our 72.6 years (unless you graze
the upper end, you lucky dears)
and hope for just enough trouble
that life might bubble a bit,
but not boil.


We dream ourselves miraculous,
spectacular, well-read,
looking to marry better than
well, sometimes getting lucky,
Captains Whitebread, we all sail from
moderation to moderation
hoping to see better than average
without really trying
especially hard.


We move from Monday to Sunday,
some rising, some settling
to the comfortable middle,
fighting against
the attractive extremes
that spell our doom,
knowing that a little more,
a little less, is the key
to our success,
our mean,
our bliss.