darling you are no more than precrafted sounds
you are goo goo and gaa gaa two years later
limited by the latin alphabet and an online baby-name website.
you are about fourty years of vicarious living
tacked on to the end of your parents' lives
encompassed by speculation
about fifteen seconds prior to the exact moment of their deaths
finally settled in your perception
by a predetermined resolution to never be your mother
a hint of resentment,
and lung cancer thats been waiting for you
since you started smoking at the age of fifteen.
you speak in gobbledegook only
its the familiar sort.
your ideas are preestablished
a spinning wheel in your head, you find the feeling
that matches your situation and express it
in a string of harsh staccato noises.
everyone understands them,
with various interpretations.
somewhere there is a man writing in permanent marker
an absolutely unbiased account of the entirety of human history
with no room for interpretation.
feel absolutely uninhibited;
his wrist is frequently sore,
he's several thousand years behind
and has no time to account for
what's only perception.