I can’t smoke your weed
My ego won’t let me.
You’ve never had to compensate for anything real.
You’re so bland and beautiful.
I want the real thing
No more smoke screens
You’re trying to smash a spider with a sledgehammer.
A life of chaos sounds reasonable.
I grew up staring at a million random dots
Trying to find meaning in my ceiling
You write another obtuse song on guitar like it’s Mozart.
Like it’s unique, like it’s not awful.
I’ll grow a ‘stache
And admire your style
You didn’t ask for my ego or your brain.
As you bravely face this excruciating existential pain.
Life is simple, Life is easy
If we want it to be
There’s never an end to your important convos.
It becomes the worst of me.
We feel something in each moment
So life is not a torment
You sing that song to torture me.
Or you’re creating things in my head—happens quite frequently.
I wear my family on my sleeve.
I have a memory that won’t recede.
What if I just passed away,
no memory left of the life I’ve laid?
Also published on Medium.