(no subject)
A Visit
I need to take stock of my life.
It should be easy like the difference
between blurry lens 1 and sharp lens 2,
but instead it is ruinous like lens 3 and lens 4
when the only differences is that 3 is softer
and 4 is harsher and you have to decide now
and forever how you want to see the world,
who you want to be. I wonder
how much the numbers have gone up
for my staying awake and not sleeping;
even when my eyes sting I stare at the computer screen
looking for salvation on the internet.
I pity the poor 20/20 man who we're all judged against.
I drink sugary drinks and don't brush my teeth enough.
Six months ago, the dentist told me my wisdom teeth
were laterally impacted and needed to come out.
What can you say to that?
Except, "General anesthetic, please."
But I still haven't scheduled the appointment.
I don't dream that one day the x-ray will come back
and he'll say, "Good job, no cavities."
I'm not that naive.
I want you to tell me what life is.
I don't need no doctor telling me to lose my gut
and eat vegetables and that deep-fried chicken is bad for me.
Before Mount Systolic blows a pulmonary embolism my way,
I want you to whisper to me
the exact ratio of misery and hope
that makes life so complicated and worthwhile
that we need to pay other people for us to live.
I need to take stock of my life.
It should be easy like the difference
between blurry lens 1 and sharp lens 2,
but instead it is ruinous like lens 3 and lens 4
when the only differences is that 3 is softer
and 4 is harsher and you have to decide now
and forever how you want to see the world,
who you want to be. I wonder
how much the numbers have gone up
for my staying awake and not sleeping;
even when my eyes sting I stare at the computer screen
looking for salvation on the internet.
I pity the poor 20/20 man who we're all judged against.
I drink sugary drinks and don't brush my teeth enough.
Six months ago, the dentist told me my wisdom teeth
were laterally impacted and needed to come out.
What can you say to that?
Except, "General anesthetic, please."
But I still haven't scheduled the appointment.
I don't dream that one day the x-ray will come back
and he'll say, "Good job, no cavities."
I'm not that naive.
I want you to tell me what life is.
I don't need no doctor telling me to lose my gut
and eat vegetables and that deep-fried chicken is bad for me.
Before Mount Systolic blows a pulmonary embolism my way,
I want you to whisper to me
the exact ratio of misery and hope
that makes life so complicated and worthwhile
that we need to pay other people for us to live.