She was the daughter of two healthy churchgoers,
A sister of a little rebellious girl,
And a list maker herself.
She made lists of the simple:
What to buy at the grocery store,
What to pack for her vacation,
What she needed to do for the week,
What CDs she wanted to buy.
She made lists of the complicated:
What she wanted to do with her life
(While comparing it to the list of what everyone else wanted,)
Who she would have to say goodbye to
(All too soon and sooner than she realized,)
Where she planned to travel in the future
(Granted she wasn’t drowning in debt,)
How she could easily **** herself
(Even though she had no intentions to do so.)
She was a pensive, well-spoken woman,
Someone who loved with all her heart,
And made lists to make herself feel better.
Lists of the pets she wanted,
The names she liked,
The books to read,
The letters to write,
The addresses of friends,
The dreams of hers,
The movies to watch,
The poems to memorize.
Her lists brought a sense of organization,
A false feeling of having it all figured out,
Despite the fact she knew her life could crumble
At any moment from all the pressure.
She was convinced the world was weighing her down
To be a certain person,
When in reality, all the heaviness came from herself.
She thought she would let down her family,
But she would only let down herself.
A world where the ground was made of words and the sky of paper
Saturated her vision,
And her lists kept her ignorant,
Her lists kept her happy.
(It’s all too sad until you know,
That the list maker is me.)