I want life to make sense all the time, in all ways.
I want everything to be honest and synthesized, direct and revealed.
I want life to scream and not to whisper
out of my soul
even though whispers soothe me more than screams
at first.
I need time to work up to things.
I'm not a great person, I realize.
I channel a great muse from time to time,
but as a person I'm mediocre, bordering on inferior.
I don't want to have to negotiate my life,
and I don't feel I should have to.
I want it handed to me.
See?
I'm average.
I don't go out and get it,
I let it come to me.
And then I don't scream in glorious gratitude,
I just whisper, “Thank you,”
I just get by
I hardly go beyond that.
I'm just one of the masses,
I'm just another partially screwed up person,
with a dash of angel
and a scoop of vanilla
not even on the rocks
but sometimes with Tobasco, on lucky days.
I dream as much and as little as anyone,
I squeeze between the cracks.
There's hardly room for me in this world,
but when I find a crack,
I squeeze myself into it if I can.
I'm no heroine, no great person.
I'm really not.
And moreover I don't want to be.
I want to be average.
Average height, average weight,
I'll take an extra point above the mean in intelligence,
just one,
because I get off on that
because I'm a mental masturbator
and that's the only thing I really live for:
being one point above the mode in smarts (not even very much).
Beyond that I'm just another brick in the wall,
leaf on the tree,
dent in the cement,
and learning to be okay with that,
with my one extra point of mind.