rollinboyo
Bluelighter
I see all the people I used to know
their faces plastered on the internet
their dull wit displayed for all to see
why the rush to be famous?
brittle laughter fills the club
let's put off the future for just one night
we all want to be rich
we all want to be happy
but getting there?
no one's sure
you'd think the scientists would have
found a formula by now
yet it's the path that kills us
the shining mirage at the end
that we lemmings follow
right off the cliff
a straight drop into soccer practice and prozac
the psychotherapists' leather lounge chairs
and the endless talk of mother and father and brother
our family back home
the only place we knew joy
yet we blame them above all
they're the problem
not the lawyer in his mahogany office
not the politician with his slick sound-bite speeches
nor the celebrity with her face all white teeth and smooth skin
they're a dream
what I want to be when I grow up
now I'm in a cubicle
I can hear the printer screaming
and the receptionist with her perfect christian cheer
paid for at $12.50 an hour
was it always this way?
my therapist in his smug harvard tweed
chuckles at my question
recommends I read Sartre and Camus
the post-modern man
in his apartment all IKEA white
he's the first to think
that there's nothing to live for
you can't write a poem in the office
their faces plastered on the internet
their dull wit displayed for all to see
why the rush to be famous?
brittle laughter fills the club
let's put off the future for just one night
we all want to be rich
we all want to be happy
but getting there?
no one's sure
you'd think the scientists would have
found a formula by now
yet it's the path that kills us
the shining mirage at the end
that we lemmings follow
right off the cliff
a straight drop into soccer practice and prozac
the psychotherapists' leather lounge chairs
and the endless talk of mother and father and brother
our family back home
the only place we knew joy
yet we blame them above all
they're the problem
not the lawyer in his mahogany office
not the politician with his slick sound-bite speeches
nor the celebrity with her face all white teeth and smooth skin
they're a dream
what I want to be when I grow up
now I'm in a cubicle
I can hear the printer screaming
and the receptionist with her perfect christian cheer
paid for at $12.50 an hour
was it always this way?
my therapist in his smug harvard tweed
chuckles at my question
recommends I read Sartre and Camus
the post-modern man
in his apartment all IKEA white
he's the first to think
that there's nothing to live for
you can't write a poem in the office
Last edited:
