Glee, How Novel an Idea

April 11, 2008
Glee, how novel an idea
to be skipping down some hallowed hall
on the arm of somebody you may never see again
in fifteen years. and to go to some hang out,
shoot the crap, play pinball
with damp fingers and warm, musty breath
drink drinks with bubbles and fizz
clap each other on the back, sit close
and enjoy that buzzy feeling of no-there-are-no-worries-what-are-you-talking-about
other than the ones that we put in our own heads
the kind that plague our halfway dreams
the kind that worm into our youth.
the kind that won't matter.

we'll worry about things that seem so imminent
right there and then
fidgety and sweaty, we'll wait as our stomach
tumbles over and over, some tumultuous tidal wave
that flips us onto our toes and pushes us
forward and back until the urge to vomit
scuttles up the ladder of priority
but when it's over, it'll only be a second
before you're thrown back
and forget about it.
that's kind of like childhood.
wounds heal faster when you're young.
they're not as deep.
we're all hemophiliacs, anyways
who knows if they were ever there at all.

Independence is a grown-up word
something shiny and new that's so
alien to us, cookies that we can't reach
(try your tiptoes, honey).
we're still young, though
ripe little children for the picking, alert-minded
eager to come out on top of every wrestling match
even the ones that will puncture and deflate our egos
the ones that leave bloody marks on our cheeks
to fester and scab over in some later time
when we've once again
forgotten about it.

and our friends
or something like that
we'll smile lighthearted smiles
and hugging, and touching, and joking
we laugh about things that we'll have forgotten
by tomorrow. because nobody forgets
that it's only survival of the fittest.
how to let somebody know you're better than them
and to make sure they don't forget it
don't you ever forget it.

we all feel insignificant sometimes
fighting for some sort of happiness
ripping at each other and trying, trying to be
the one who deserves it, who gets it
without realizing that either
every one must have it
or no one does.

the struggle feels futile
all those check-ups and cavities
if my parents think i'm special
how come no one else seems to?
we must be missing something here
those tiny intricate nanochips
that wrap everything up in crinkly cellophane
neatly, color coded, fresh
that point us in the right direction
he's right for you, he's wrong
say this to her, say this to them
keep your mouth shut, look both ways
don't laugh, don't ride in his car,
don't think about it,
don't throw the first punch

but they don't make those anymore,
and it's too late.

when we grow up, let's say we get there
and if we ever bother to look back
we'll see our blurry faces and our worried
overdramatic expressions about things like
what she said to you about your hair
the petty fights you have with your parents
over pocket money and boyfriends
and maybe, if we're lucky,
we'll get in a chuckle or too
before we're dead.

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