Everything struggles to be what it is
By being what it isn’t.
You say too much, you weigh too much,
You don’t weigh enough,
You are too nice,
You aren’t nice enough,
You’re too concerned with time,
Not concerned with time enough,
You are too charming, you believe
In things the rest of us
Try not to believe, but cannot,
And therefore we hate you even more.
You are the extremes we hate
By loving us too much. In their infinite
Wisdom (meaning infinite torture)
These extremes are beyond you,
So you are never anything close
To what you are without clothes,
And nothing goes with that, or goes.
You are combinations
Which seek more combinations, despite
Your secret desire for the One,
Which never happens—
Except once, very late at night,
When you were alone, not with the one
Who should have been there—
As you come up short, daily,
The sands running out mundanely,
Which is your fault, for trying to be
What you never are, vying to be,
Inside a crowd, which thinks less—
In its own putrid, political mess.
You need to compare
All, now, to what is no longer there,
Too sexy, never sexy enough, longing
To be the best, never the best,
You, you, that person I see
Was never, never, never free.