It with a capital I

 We always want what we can’t have.

Curls ironed straight first thing every morning,

Afraid to stand out, we’d rather be boring.

Legs too twiggy, belly button sticks out,

If only we were a few inches taller

And our feet and ears were a little smaller

And we had a single damn clue of what life’s about,

Maybe then we’d have it.

 

The It �" not this bullshit �"

Escape the genetics that turned us into heretics

With buggy eyes and forced lies that only lead to another trap.

We can’t wrap our heads around this life,

Around who we are and our ugly scars

That impinge on the regularity we think will solve the impossible problem.

 

But that’s just It.

We will always be plowing the snow as it falls ceaselessly,

Digging our way out of sand stuck somewhere between quick and stagnant

While worries run rampant around our cluttered consciousness

That is unwilling to accept inevitable impossibility.