I long for the days when it wasn't so easy
To ruin a good week, day, moment, time.
Life was good
if you could curl up with a book
after seven, when your parents didn't know,
because when they asked if you were sleeping,
so what if
It was a day to pray for
if you could dance in the rain
without your raincoat on,
or your boots-
just your t-shirt and cutoffs
and if you got dirt on your face
or saw a beetle
you laughed and moved on
In the years B. D. (before drama)
friends were friends and enemies weren't.
Loyalty went unquestioned.
There were fights and there were nights
when you fell asleep crying
and woke up at three A.M., oblivious
to what had happened twelve hours before.
And the bruises healed and there was spoken nothing more
about the battle to the death hours earlier.
But then, of course, came the biting
The pissing, the moaning,
the bitching, and ah, the most famous-
Friends are frenemies are ends are enemies
social relations are more complicated than a schizophrenic's diary
and I'll be beginning to keep one myself
if some sort of catalyst
the need for paranoid rants
cycling viciously inside this cracked pot of a skull.
Wasn't this supposed to end,
isn't titanium supposed do bend
if the force of a headstrong harpy
combined with all the powers
of equal and opposite forces,
like hate and indifference,
fire and ice,
finder and scavenger
pirate and the pirated
those who are sick to the bone of all this, and those who treat it?
Dammit, I hate hormones.