Real Life
I’m tired of writing all thismushy romance crap that everybody
hates to read because it makes no sense
when applied to ‘real life.’
Because ‘real life’ doesn’t end with
people falling in love
and babies being born
and families gathering around the table
for a Sunday meal.
If this isn’t real life,
then what am I living?
A fantasy?
Am I secretly a unicorn
with a horn and hooves?
Or, am I part of a plot
made up by the government
to put robot children
into schools to spy on what teachers
and students
and parents actually do?
I always thought that I was
different than all the other kids.
But who knows, maybe
I’m just a little, pink person
in a game of Life
stuck in the back seat
of my parents black minivan.
I assure you that
what I am living
is a ‘real’ life.
I wouldn’t be
breathing your air
eating your food
ignoring your ‘instant messages’
(that were never so instant, anyway)
or taking up your space
if it wasn’t, would I?
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