I wish I could say the food on the table didn’t require a degree, or that I’m not about to let go of all of it because the unfairness story is so relentless it’s no longer a story.

But I know if I were making more life would suck just as much I’d have to write another poem about it in order to find my balance.

So, I’m just going to be like the food and just sit and wait until I begin to turn into the reason nobody likes the silent ones, and how one decides to stay home.