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Mediocrity

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It hits you faster than a bullet meeting lightning
It does not kill, but scars the Human Flesh
It is a fierce wave of Posiedons tears crashing into you
Carrying you out to Uncharted sea.
Standing on stools and phone books, and all
Your hands reaching higher, and higher and higher,
When the cookie jar is locked behind iron gate and key
Laying in bed with embroidered blankets 
Which leave your feet cold and begging for more
Singing out of the top of your head and doing
Everything Sheinkopf said
But still having a flat sign mocking  
Mocking the notes your off pitched life is singing
Waiting for a bus you know will never come and 
Longing and desiring for miracles to appear before every guarded hoard
Having a bent key to what you know is the Maidens golden lock.
Looking at the moon knowing nothing has changed since you last saw its cratered face
And Knowing Your Life Proceeds in Orderly mediocre Fashion



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