The Older I Get
I think a lot about the world surrounding me,
As I get older,
The way I’m the bent product of two straight lines of soldier.
The way Atlas holds up the globe on just his shoulder.
The way the paint grips the canvas like a child holding on to his father.
It's strange; the way I think of the leaves,
As I get older.
But now I’m at an age where I’m thinking of adult concepts and eventuality,
I think about tax season — what what I’ll buy with the money,
I think of overseas — try and learn why people can't reach neutrality,
I think of wars, and blood on beaches,
Fake peace and victory speeches,
I think of the kids whos pain only matches the screeches —
Of tires and tares,
On runaway fares,
Paying tolls on roads I long forgot didn’t fall.
My friend got into an accident this fall.
There he sits — Hospital bed,
Wandering eyes to white walls filled with dread,
Legs broken so he can’t even wander the white halls — wishing he wasn’t stuck in bed.
And my mind is over on the side, wishing I could be dead.
I spent years of my life just wondering —
“Is this the older I get?”
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