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In the half sun of the morning, my thoughts are failing me.
Every inch of tape measures something like plastic magazine covers,
but I use them to shield my eyes and everything is fine.
All the while, baby strollers are holding races in my head,
those miserable mothers shoving like businessmen.
I’m enjoying it though, because they look like fools.
And I never have because I’m new and I bend like the plastic those mothers are made of.
“You’ve never seen the bad of the world” says my own mother
but how would she know anyways,
growing up in Munich and moving to a large London flat.
She never saw the ghetto like I did.
“Don’t tell me who I am, you’d be the last to know!”
But really those seemingly profound words
are slipping away
and I can’t find a reason to stay awake in this never-ending storm.
It’s dragging me and my brother is gone so I might as well lay down.
But that would be a plastic thing to do,
measurable and failing.