Incurable

Incurable
Engulfed? No. Merely swallowed.
Strange near death muscle ache and Wow!
A sparrow's near the coffee mug.
Who? The phone rings once (yes, it happens twice)
a secret code from you
to turn my solar panels and face the freeze.
You look to me as a mirror in the foyer.
We no longer know what to do with ourselves.
I feel like an unknown periodical discontinued...
yet still on the shelf.
I was almost out the door when the phone rang,
when I heard that voice I felt nothing
but the closing of the door.
Me and my kind are incurable.
Still, I hate it when I hear her say, "What's with you anyway?"
Me and my kind are incurable.
Made to feel shame, sickened by the fear;
throwing up on pre-test; not allowed to take the post-test.
Raised in a city dead from the sun down.
Yeah, turns out third grade is a lot like the world.
Sixth grade; endless days, fielding the short hop among all of the odd balls.
Kim's hair and its perfect part;
and there's me scribbling my plea,
my awkwardness knowing no bounds.
Made to feel wanted six times
but only twice by the same girl.
Then on to more junior high lowness...
Glenda drunk at thirteen,
her brighter eye fixed upon me.
And an affection for high-heeled boots began with her, not you.
I hear that daytime voice, cotton skirt, night club
night before nervous
after a hard hand stamp, nothing more beautiful than
watching the doorman's girlfriend tear through all of his fast food.
I am incurable but still improving.
Though I am slightly less than remarkable,
yes, I'm still worth knowing.
No more dreams; no more wishing;
I'll be done as the earth rolls on.
This world belongs to the young.