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Description
an idea.
a tiny prick of
a thought
a notion
a possibility
in the back of your head.
(itching your brain as you go through the day
wondering if there's any reason to it
or whether
it's just an idea.)

you wake up earlier than some
sky still dark
air still;
blank
empty
a blank canvas
tinting your skin blue as you step into
the halted Washington morning
(it stings through your coat,
not quite living up to how things used to be).
Every day a bus comes,
a big machine that
cranks and squeals and screeches
at least from the children that ride among you
who worship you.
they think you are a hero
and a genius and a fantastic person
because you play the guitar
and have cool hair.
and you are more
and you know it
and they don't.
Forcing politeness
you wait for it to end
so you can brave the cold again
with more people that worship you
who you may or may not
tolerate
like
(or even love...some of them.)

You weren't always like this,
a statue of a punk rock boy.
Once upon a time you were:
the epitome of normal
the cute and funny kid
...hanging out
in the corner.
But you've changed because you're sick
of all the thoughts-
the people that loved you then,
that you thought
would stop
if
you tried to scare them away.

Description
an idea.
a tiny prick of
a thought
a notion
a possibility
in the back of your head.
(itching your brain as you go through the day
wondering if there's any reason to it
or whether
it's just an idea.)

you wake up earlier than some
sky still dark
air still;
blank
empty
a blank canvas
tinting your skin blue as you step into
the halted Washington morning
(it stings through your coat,
not quite living up to how things used to be).
Every day a bus comes,
a big machine that
cranks and squeals and screeches
at least from the children that ride among you
who worship you.
they think you are a hero
and a genius and a fantastic person
because you play the guitar
and have cool hair.
and you are more
and you know it
and they don't.
Forcing politeness
you wait for it to end
so you can brave the cold again
with more people that worship you
who you may or may not
tolerate
like
(or even love...some of them.)

You weren't always like this,
a statue of a punk rock boy.
Once upon a time you were:
the epitome of normal
the cute and funny kid
...hanging out
in the corner.
But you've changed because you're sick
of all the thoughts-
the people that loved you then,
that you thought
would stop
if
you tried to scare them away.