i used to say i wanted to live in
rome,
boston,
new york,
london,
dc,
just like i could pack right up and move there and
sip my coffee on a tiny table on a busy city street
never thought about rent or money or jobs, no
just thought about me and my poetry and how
i didn't have to worry about i thing, i just needed
to get out, and live my exciting new life
all on my own.
i've got big dreams but they're not taking me anywhere
and i'm sittin' here stringing words into sentences
that all of six people will read (at most)
i can't build planes or spaceships or program a computer
i can't do any more school to save my life
so where do i fit in this giant plan everyone else seems to have?
why can't i do the one thing i love?
there's a big white curtain in front of me
and it's made of steel and i can't even put my eye
to a crack, because it's all welded shut.
steel blindfold, handcuffs on my eyes, gag on my brain.
this poem won't make me one cent
and yet, it is all i have
maybe i'm doing this all wrong but
tell me how could i do it all right?
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