If you ever love me,
and you write poems–
if you compare me to things I can never be,
Bradbury did something with a weathervein,
that echoed Shakespeare’s witches,
“Something wicked this way comes.”
I’ve been far too many failed expectations,
and I’d think you’d understand the feeling,
what with us all being:
fat,
lazy,
useless,
uncaring,
selfish,
ungrateful,
assholes.
We’ve been left a shit world here,
but it seems more important to find beauty in that,
than to shove our heads ostrich first into sand,
mewling about exaggerations.
our perfection obsession–
where’s the worth in it?
