This Poem Is A Lie.

I want to be green.
Be pure and crisp like September sunlight.
I want to have to have a look in my eyes of those who have unlived.
Those untouched,
that blank/ entitled 10 foot stare.
I want the new car smell that people without scars have.
I want to be clean,
to smell like Ivory soap (99.9% pure) .

I want to be tan.
and blond...
Aryan, but, you know, without the Nazi tendencies.

I want to watch what I eat.
I want to casually brag about how often I visit the gym.
I want to know what people are talking about when they are discussing the celebrities of the week.

I want to swagger,
but without having earned it.

I want to be freshly scrubbed, hair trimmed, immaculate, untouched, suburban, I want to be addicted only to women's vaginas and breasts.

I want to be entitled and undeserving of it.
I want to be work of fiction because my life's facts are too boring to recount.

I want to brag about how drunk I was last weekend,
instead of trying to forget how hungover I am this morning...
and most mornings.

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