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
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
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
