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Conform.

We have tickets to some far off destination,

You’ve set the stage for the tone.

Standing there, with your cut-off shirts

Two sizes too big.

You’re hoping no one notices the inevitable disease

That hangs from the corner of your mouth.

You Puff.

You Huff.

I cough.

You’re thinking you became the definition of cool, fitting in.

I just want to tell you…

No,

I’d give anything to tell you,

You’re not that worthy in my book.

You’ve sold yourself short

And given up on your big ideas.

For what, exactly?

Five minutes of getting out from this place we’ve named hell.

I’ve got news for you, sweetie,

We’re all trying to make our big escape.

But there’s more ways than one

To spread out dusty wings.