Systematic

Sometimes the library
Feels like recycled paper
(And it smells old
Because the shelves
Are full of dust)
I can’t stand being
In loud places
But I hate it when it’s quiet
And heaven knows
It’s too quiet here

I’ll pick out a book
Perhaps an EE Cummings
Or Robert Frost
To soothe the fact that
I never studied here
And never intend to
I just can’t help but wonder
What other faces
Have peered down
On the pages I read
And carelessly throw out
Frost’s fantastic endings
And took it at face value
When really he was just
Trying to live for
Himself

And I-
I can’t compare to
Any of this
Because I just sit quietly
Reading a book
Pretending I’m okay with
Being alone
(When inside I wish someone
Would comment on
“The Road Not Taken”
Or commence in an
Arousing discussion of
EE Cummings sexual innuendo’s)
And all I feel is a paper cut
As I flip to the next page
Of poetry I’ve already read
A thousand times
But each time holds new meaning
(And the question of my
Intelligence level arises again
When I can’t understand something
I understood before)
And the fact that these chairs
Make it impossible to get
Comfortable
Or put the right feel for a mood
And the words are always so dull
When I’m not in my room
(And the only time I read
Is when the Golden Girls have ended
And I can’t find another dance step
To concentrate on in my room
While listening to music I only
Pretend to like)

And I try to think of philosophy
And concentrate on how I feel
About my life
And realize that
Tomorrow’s are only as threatening
As today will allow them to be

And no matter how hard I try
Somehow I am always a disappointment
(To myself)
And to the world that doesn’t
Understand; that I have more going
On in my head then facts and figures
Or the constant worry of
“What am I going to do with my life”
When all I really want to concern
Myself with is living right now
Without the worry of
Pissing the next person off who wants
Whatever book I’m cozied up with
On an uncomfortable
Plastic library chair
Where the room smells like dust
And I feel like I’m in a card board box
And right now It’s too cold
To go back to my room where
I’m more comfortable

I just want to tell someone
That I love poetry, and the moon
And I am curious as to
Why the world turns like it does
But while I stand in the moment
Everyone else is already in tomorrow
And I’m just trying to catch up
And live in the right time frame
(And we wonder why our parents
Still live in the 50’s)

But it’s hard sometimes when
Tomorrow I’m going to be alone again
And I’ll come back to this very chair
And I’ll read the very same book
(Just to shroud everyone that I’m
Okay being alone)
And at some point I’ll have to leave
This building
To realize again that
Tomorrow is only as threatening
As today will allow it to be