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Expectation Begets the Family Rejects
3-27-11

When I was 12,
I didn't expect to be me at 22.
I envisioned a house full of bookshelves,
Writing contracts to fulfill.

I didn't picture wearing the same ill-fitting pants
For weeks on end,
Nor eating beans until my colon danced.
I couldn't have predicted this bend.

It wasn't just me;
They all expected greatness.
All that's left to see
Is unworthy of the press.

I'm going to be 23;
There's no great pause,
No magic in me.
No great crusader to the cause.

When 24 comes,
And I'm still eating beans,
I'll be stifling the runs,
Trying to remember how to dream.

I didn't picture the overwhelming fear,
The monotony of this existence;
If at 12, I'd felt this level of fear,
I would have put suicide to the test.

When 30 dawns,
And I'm still subsiding on cereal,
Will I still be poverty's pawn?
Will I fight for a new deal?

If I make it to 70,
Will I finally lose my sanity?
Will I sing to my tea,
Lullabies about being 12, aching to be free?

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