motherhood.

Most girls, not women,
Long to be little women,
To,
Keep boys little boys and never men.
They say, "If you love me,"
"Then, you'll marry me, then give me, babies,"
And "..with babies, come eternity, yes, eternity."
Isn't that gracefully vindictive?
Glossy and colorlessly constrictive?
It's a love song to conformity.
A bag of bones, a bag of tricks,
She'll make you trade in your stick shift, for a,
Smooth ride SUV-mini-Van-Hearse hybrid, that,
Gets good mileage but better a worse pricetag.
A daily soccer candy-coated reminder of wanting better sex,
And a,
Bumpy ride to the baseball diamond of regret.
But, look at me as I lie still,
If I don't give you babies can I,
Give you thrills?
An endless supply of dirty jokes and warm whiskey,
And a, warm whisper of you escaping me, when,
There is no distance, distractions when you kiss me -
Nothing is sexier than silence.
Nevermind, I am wasted on the gray.
I am a bad influence and you should not stay,
They'll call me a runner, who went far away,
Mom lives in Ireland and paints all damn day.
They'll have my eyes, but they'll never know me,
I'll get pictures in the mail, but just don't show me,
Since I left.

for you.

Your cynicism and wit are the lie boat that keeps you from drowning in this vast sea of mediocrity.