Walking between the tombstones

trying to read the names

written there

Mr. and Mrs. what?

I don’t care

the grass covers it up

the gardener hasn’t trimmed the grounds

and that’s the problem with maintenance

things only go from bad to worse

the best job is average

and only seeks average

all the pain

underground

gets covered up with sod

and trimmed

inconsistently

but the dead don’t care

Dreams that run away from us

begging to be chased

always run faster

they don’t want to be caught

and well…

they can die

like they were never there

and as long as they remain unreal

and I remain real

I really don’t care

I’ll find a way to live my life for something

that’s really there

while I have it

All the things above ground are better

than when you’re buried under it

and the illusions, bright and shiny

like comets

we might touch

or stars we could hold

they’re just fool’s gold

for fools

who love to look

They don’t look back

they don’t think

We only think of them

because

we’re the ones who are beautiful.