My mother’s a writer
My father’s a writer
And they have plenty to write about
But nothing to do

And my mother is sad
Because she says,
“I’ve run out of emotion,”
She misses that raw pubescence
That I’ve so gracefully wrapped myself in

I love to love strangers, the stranger the better
“I can only stand the people I know,”
But she used to steal road signs
And she used to coax the white teeth teens
Out of pearl-sided mansions
Onto oil slicked streets

My mother’s a writer
My father’s a writer
And they have plenty to write about
But nothing to do

My father was rich when he was 21
He had a leatherbound book of poetry
A fiance and three best mates
“Loved them, crazy guys”
But then he said, “we were all crazy then,”

But then there were children and houses
Mid-life crises, loans to be paid
They were wild, broken when they joined the PTA
And now they’re sick
Of raising their children
They’re off to South America
To feel human again

i need other people's words to fill my head
some days i hate the english language and
i want to throw myself away

I wore my inkstained heart on my sleeve
For so many years
That the black letters soaked through
And stained my skin dark

I’m sweeping up every part of myself
I’ll remember it all
Confusion on the dance floor
The pumping sounds from chairs that broke
So we put them back together
And everytime that someone else
Fell victim to it’s crumbling
We laughed and laughed and laughed again
Too hungover to care to dream
Of days that are less than cold

Over ourselves like long-lost sons
If every Sunday is prodigal
Leave it that way, it’s possible
That romance isn’t what we made it

Because the doctor called you out
For eating birthday cake on weekdays
Like a hooligan from Harlem

But we were all perched on the countertop
Hey, baked goods for brunch
Post-party depression
You said you preferred to wash the dishes
Because the local watering hole comes from a faucet
And mixes well with the dish soap

Sundays with rolling turning thunder
Rollicking under the floorboards
A trembling pair of washed-up dress shoes
But the trees stay silent.

oh, people are just people
the boy's just a boy

l.e.
{10w}