"Turn the Page"
It's always easier
to think of yourself as average,
To measure
everybody
against
yourself,
as if
you're the upper
echelon, the elite,
In reality?
the
measuring is
the problem,
3/4 of a teaspoon of hair
a pinch of sarcasm
a tablespoon of indecency
a jigger of sweat
a spritz of body odor
and pound of bone,
All adding up to what?
A prime example
of insecurity,
Get over it,
There is no recipe
it's is all fucked up
at this point,
We aren't perfect,
we can't be perfect,
Use it in a sentence,
properly,
describe something without flaw,
disprove Murphy's Law,
I've never witnessed a pure form of it,
I've seen glimpses
of what
I guess I believe
to be perfect,
An ice cold glass of coke,
after a strong night
of Bay Ridge binging,
the sizzle of soda
coating the
stale stench of held in vomit,
I've even tasted it,
on the lips of a brunette
that I had just begun to know,
after flashing the perfect date card
Dinner, a movie, a coffee shop
and a stroll down by the shoreline,
The visuals seem to strike
the largest chord,
The bevvy of strangers
each sporting a different guise,
The rising skirt on a breezy day
when I first learned what it was
to ogle,
The sinking hem of the jogger
more in tuned with the pavement
than the bystanders caught
in the heaving and the hefting,
The wisps of hair
all with slightly different
tints,
combining to make the perfect
palette for my aisle of admiration,
I then recoil and realize that
when the hourglass
is tired
and the drips of sand find
their moment to rest,
it's all fucked up,
It's all impure,
it's all uncensored,
it's all a gameshow
without prize,
without punishment,
without an audience
able-minded to be coaxed
into clapping once
the blinking, red
applause
sign gets into gear,
This tragedy befalls us all
and our senses know the routine
like second nature,
The rising skirt,
seems tied to a string
used only to incite riots,
The hem,
belongs to the ungraceful
all-knowing ego freaks,
The hues of hair?
Burnt,
crimped,
straightened,
curled,
once again,
impure,
That's when you find it...
The grace,
the elegance,
the flaws-
The grit, the grime,
the execution
of everything
and everyone,
Because when the pushers
start to shove
and the shovers start to slay,
we fall asleep knowing,
That it's US against the world...
to think of yourself as average,
To measure
everybody
against
yourself,
as if
you're the upper
echelon, the elite,
In reality?
the
measuring is
the problem,
3/4 of a teaspoon of hair
a pinch of sarcasm
a tablespoon of indecency
a jigger of sweat
a spritz of body odor
and pound of bone,
All adding up to what?
A prime example
of insecurity,
Get over it,
There is no recipe
it's is all fucked up
at this point,
We aren't perfect,
we can't be perfect,
Use it in a sentence,
properly,
describe something without flaw,
disprove Murphy's Law,
I've never witnessed a pure form of it,
I've seen glimpses
of what
I guess I believe
to be perfect,
An ice cold glass of coke,
after a strong night
of Bay Ridge binging,
the sizzle of soda
coating the
stale stench of held in vomit,
I've even tasted it,
on the lips of a brunette
that I had just begun to know,
after flashing the perfect date card
Dinner, a movie, a coffee shop
and a stroll down by the shoreline,
The visuals seem to strike
the largest chord,
The bevvy of strangers
each sporting a different guise,
The rising skirt on a breezy day
when I first learned what it was
to ogle,
The sinking hem of the jogger
more in tuned with the pavement
than the bystanders caught
in the heaving and the hefting,
The wisps of hair
all with slightly different
tints,
combining to make the perfect
palette for my aisle of admiration,
I then recoil and realize that
when the hourglass
is tired
and the drips of sand find
their moment to rest,
it's all fucked up,
It's all impure,
it's all uncensored,
it's all a gameshow
without prize,
without punishment,
without an audience
able-minded to be coaxed
into clapping once
the blinking, red
applause
sign gets into gear,
This tragedy befalls us all
and our senses know the routine
like second nature,
The rising skirt,
seems tied to a string
used only to incite riots,
The hem,
belongs to the ungraceful
all-knowing ego freaks,
The hues of hair?
Burnt,
crimped,
straightened,
curled,
once again,
impure,
That's when you find it...
The grace,
the elegance,
the flaws-
The grit, the grime,
the execution
of everything
and everyone,
Because when the pushers
start to shove
and the shovers start to slay,
we fall asleep knowing,
That it's US against the world...