How to be Sensible

Fake wood grain and florescent lights,
Uncomfortable chairs and too much paper...
Sitting in a cubicle all day sparks creativity like crazy.

I guess...I guess I'm writing because
Of the vague feeling in my chest- the
Tight, tingly, "something's-going-to-happen" sensation.

But nothing's coming- not today, tomorrow, or ever...
Never happily ever after.

And the break the bonds of poetry
Would be a relief.

Sometimes I wish I could shut myself up-
Stuff a sock in the mouth of my muse
And tell her to quite being a hopeless romantic.
Her time might be better spent
Learning how to live...
Or at least how to work a cash register.

Sometimes I wish I was emo.
I could dye my hair black- or maybe just dark brown,
Wear Chucks and grungy jeans
And refuse to wash my hair.
Maybe I'd get noticed then, but I know I'd just do it wrong.
I'd be emo to get attention,
Then try to cover it up to get more

And no one would notice.

I guess that's all right
Because I like my hair blonde and squeaky clean.

That's me:
Squeaky clean, true blue, goody-two-shoes.
And I minded once, but not now.
Not anymore.

But there's something about the way my pen tembles
That reminds me of the way your lashes flutter,
Like the tiny drops of rainbow-black are
Slipping down their silky curvature,
Lighting up your eyes.
Open. Close. Open.
Like a strobe light.

Be sensible, for heaven's sake!
For your sake and mine-
For sanity and silence-
For squeaky clean, true blue, goody-two-shoes.

The only cuts on my wrist are paper cuts,
And that's okay.

But you're not.

And that's okay to.