you're far too sweet for the word,
too sweet for any sentence I conjure with a smile,
or any landscape I could paint, watching you all the while.
You've got to get restless, kid,
if you ever want to leave behind
this locked-up, pushed-down, tasteless ritual
that you might eat someday (and find quite distasteful).
You've got to find yourself, friend,
before someone gorgeous will find you
to trace out the sun amidst your black showers,
then whisper in your ear, and tear down your wallflowers.
You've got to get smart, bud,
if you're gonna try to slap my wrist again,
and wipe the spit off my face with your Christmas sweater,
and hand me a note— a burning "you're getting better".
I, meanwhile, I'm trying to get gorgeous,
just to maybe feel like I deserve the girl
whose face shines in the movielight, from the corner of my eye,
and whose laugh forces a smile to all who might cry.
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