I have something to confess:
I can no longer pretend
that I find you annoying, that I hated
the stranger who flipped me off,
that work always sucks,
that I think everything but myself
is the problem.
The truth is:
I’m in love with you,
world. With your grumpy
old men, with your angry drivers.
I’m in love with the way
I sometimes feel I can hardly
handle you. How you challenge me
the way everyone else was
always too polite to.
I love you even if you’re late,
if your socks aren’t matching,
if you couldn’t get a date in high school.
If your GPA was low, if you didn’t graduate college.
If you felt you could never live up
to who you wanted to be or
couldn’t muster the strength to get out of bed
I want to tell you now,
it’s easier to get here than you think.
If I had followed directions
I’d have gotten lost by now.
I stumbled along asking
for something above the mundane,
to unplug from the nine-to-five,
the subtle drone of the refrigerator
in the background matching the enthusiasm
of an uninspired existence.
I demand magic.
The craving to slip into something
a little less comfortable,
a little more exciting.
A reality that isn’t
a passive backdrop of
The commercials you have to get through
to get to the good stuff.
I want to take my own subsistence
onto the dancefloor. Press hips and
swivel heads like they’re doing 180s.
I want to firewalk over the coals
of my own fears,
step to the other side as if a bridge
Own my emotions.
Thank you for your role
in bringing my own tendencies
to my consciousness,
and ask you humbly
if you might be willing to come out and play
tomorrow with me.