Your heart is your God; your ego is your soul; you’re just a Stitch looking for a Lilo;
Love’s presence can do anything; it can vaporize dreams and reprogram the heart;
Love’s absence has a way of forcing the soul’s submission to the grain of its power;
Love has a way of taming the soul with passive control.
The ego is a force of hunger, but life will temper you into a sage of sentimental sustenance;
Dreams of the soul, once pastimes of the heart, become disconcerting memories––
Molted shells of long ago––embarrassing skins to even think of––
Relics of disempowered vanity.
Learning how to make your existence a winning excuse for falling short
Is the way of buoyancy for most of us––it seems.
Behumblement by life is a marker of adulthood.
It is an uncelebrated right of passage to discover your true self,
And that person is, could your old self speak, nothing great.
Understanding that with peace is a feat of life control, but it seems intelligent.
We are all stoics at our cores; we all know how to make weakness seem invisible.

The idea becomes you deserve to live on a sitcom that nobody watches.
You wish to be what people ascribe to fictional characters.
You want to find a bar where everyone knows your name,
But the bartender kind of hates you.
You want to be a romanticized small time person,
But you don’t impress anyone in your circles.
You want to be engaging, but you end up inducing yawns.
You want to be charming, but you reek of fabricated energy.
You want to be funny, but you don’t know how, and we all know how that goes.
You wish for life to pan out future reruns––golden moments on a dime––
And your memory book is full of soul food, but all of it was acquired taste.
I wanted to be the man behind the fence on Tool Time.
Tim Allen’s neighbor––Wilson I believe his name was.
I wanted to be full of facts that were keenly relevant;
I wanted to be interesting, and someone full of profound experiences.
Alas it will never happen I one day realized.
I’ll forever be this tryhard knowitall who demands your amusement.