static talk

i'm sitting pretty,

wasted inside my sheets. 

soon to be washed out on the concrete

like a faded chalk drawing.

i stare at a screen, 

killing time and killing myself waiting.

sixteen going on seventeen

i'm a realist when i shouldn't be.

in the parking lot of sears

at midnight riding shopping carts

it looked post apocalyptic but we were infinite.

till we got scared at the thought of killers lurking. 

i haven't lived, 

never tasting cherry chapstick

or the sting of stolen drinks

while swinging my legs, 

casting a shadow bigger than me

over the highway. 

you're on top of the world, baby

but all i wanna do is drag you down to my level

to see what you did to me

or at least hit you with a heavy dose of reality. 

i'm a voice of reason you don't miss.

happiness doesn't exist 

but i can be content

in my first-world (self-created) misery. 

don't try to shoot me with another pleasantry. 

Author's Note

please let me know your thoughts.