When I tell you how tired I've been,
you crink your neck and smile.
Because you realize you're just as done
with these lies, as I.
It's a broken record spun.
We've both lived in a neighborhood
where every bit tongue is understood
to be more than just a question towards
every who or what or when and why.
We'll always be the crazy ones. Right?
I only ask because sometimes I stay up with spite and imagine
that we are all finally outside,
and we're destroying what they built
because we're sure that we could do it better than
his and her and
black and white and
rich and poor and
all those that are obvious
or just waiting to be recognized.
Where we can count our goodnights
on one clinched fist.
