I was going to write you a poem,
But you wouldn’t read it anyways.
Or maybe you would,
Three years from now when you finally got around to it,
And found it pressed between the pages of a book,
Or in your CD drive.
Because even though I might be better at being better,
You’re better at everything else.
Like sharing,
Or ranting.
Then I inherited all your old friends,
And somewhere in your will
That you gave me when you went away
But stay behind,
It said I had to know what you were up to.
And I don’t.
Because you look kind of like Jesus,
Or like a homeless person.
And like both of them,
You hide in caves you’ve built around town.
You resurrect yourself every three days
To give me pop rocks and
Get on my nerves.
Because I set the bar high for you,
But I set it too late.
Because you came first,
And you’re taller.
So you just stepped over and kept on walking.
Thanks for reminding me that I’m short.
And you set the bar high for me,
On being funny and knowing what to say,
And having the perfect comebacks,
And creating moments everyone will remember.
And my arms aren’t long enough to reach.
Sometimes I miss you,
And sometimes I want you to leave,
Because you make it impossible to eat dinner,
But you give the best Christmas presents.
So I tore up your will and
Made a ransom note
That I’ve very nearly paid bail for,
So I don’t have to be your miniature.
And I can stop turning down your volume.
Because I was going to write you a poem,
But you considered it a choking hazard.?