The wind carries tiny
white helicopters into my room.
I see out my window:
A little girl breathing
wishes into weeds.
Sometimes I even wish,
but there's always one seed left.
Planted in the center of that weed,
or in the back of your mind.
One time my mother told me
in startling tear-shaken voice,
"It n-never gets better."
That feeling in the pit of my stomach returns to remind me that.
We're older now,
and getting wiser,
but the past always looks better
and we're burning for it,
burning the sheets of the dirty deeds we all do
Watch our sins burst into flames and keep
wishing it will all get better.