I.
I'll be another cookiecutter body to dictate
in a modern monotone just how flattened is our respect
for another social issue. I'll smile to exhibit green behavior
Cross my hands nicely and clench them till they turn purple
as you'll tell me my behavior still's not the right shade of green.
Too much like the forest, where I don't have to tolerate this itchy smile,
where I can throw it off into the trees like
a sweater that only fit a decade ago.
II.
You'll push us to become these toothy grins, each glint another
random act of kindness, accept for you've got to enforce
how we'll never, ever be perfect. Then why even try? Add another
cookiecutter, a sugarcoated gingerbread man---
No, a gingerbread person, because that's more politically correct---
to grin and be a proper leader, tell the others to be just as kind.
Nothing against gingerbread people. It's just exhausting.
III.
How about you tell us all about our responsibility and respect
that you've never even witnessed---not for real, anyway---
Tell us about how good you think we are in 1s and 2s and 3s and 4s
with little serifs in little boxes on papers that of course
we're supposed to care about. I don't.
Imagine that. Not at all humbly, I've got the most little 4s of all of you.
Alas, I've got the most spite. Can you imagine that?
IV.
There's graffiti blanketting the walls, and I am afraid of myself
for it. I'm not the culprit. Really. No one dared to list me as a suspect, even.
I'm good, I'm sweet, I cross my hands nicely. Under the desk,
I clench them until they turn purple. There's graffiti on the walls,
and it's not me, but I'm still scared of myself for it
because my first thought was,
I wouldn't put it past myself.
V.
I'll be another cookiecutter body to dictate
in a modern monotone just how flattened is our respect for eight
more months. I will mask my urge to sing and dance to the drumming
music in my mind, music you wouldn't expect for someone like me.
Or should I say, someone like the picture you have of me.
Who you think I am.
I'll just be another cookiecutter of kindess for eight more months, okay?
Then,
I promise you,
I will show you this poem.
I will let you see the rebel you made me become.
I'll be another cookiecutter body to dictate
in a modern monotone just how flattened is our respect
for another social issue. I'll smile to exhibit green behavior
Cross my hands nicely and clench them till they turn purple
as you'll tell me my behavior still's not the right shade of green.
Too much like the forest, where I don't have to tolerate this itchy smile,
where I can throw it off into the trees like
a sweater that only fit a decade ago.
II.
You'll push us to become these toothy grins, each glint another
random act of kindness, accept for you've got to enforce
how we'll never, ever be perfect. Then why even try? Add another
cookiecutter, a sugarcoated gingerbread man---
No, a gingerbread person, because that's more politically correct---
to grin and be a proper leader, tell the others to be just as kind.
Nothing against gingerbread people. It's just exhausting.
III.
How about you tell us all about our responsibility and respect
that you've never even witnessed---not for real, anyway---
Tell us about how good you think we are in 1s and 2s and 3s and 4s
with little serifs in little boxes on papers that of course
we're supposed to care about. I don't.
Imagine that. Not at all humbly, I've got the most little 4s of all of you.
Alas, I've got the most spite. Can you imagine that?
IV.
There's graffiti blanketting the walls, and I am afraid of myself
for it. I'm not the culprit. Really. No one dared to list me as a suspect, even.
I'm good, I'm sweet, I cross my hands nicely. Under the desk,
I clench them until they turn purple. There's graffiti on the walls,
and it's not me, but I'm still scared of myself for it
because my first thought was,
I wouldn't put it past myself.
V.
I'll be another cookiecutter body to dictate
in a modern monotone just how flattened is our respect for eight
more months. I will mask my urge to sing and dance to the drumming
music in my mind, music you wouldn't expect for someone like me.
Or should I say, someone like the picture you have of me.
Who you think I am.
I'll just be another cookiecutter of kindess for eight more months, okay?
Then,
I promise you,
I will show you this poem.
I will let you see the rebel you made me become.
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