Growing PainsWhen you asked me how my writing was going,More Like This
I told you that I didn't know what to write.
I suppose I thought writing would be easy,
that the answers would come to me
and everything would work itself out.
But it just doesn't work that way.
You told me good writing comes from inside,
from who you are,
but I haven't known who I was
since you could get happiness in a meal
with fries and a drink,
before the girl next door
became the girl next door,
and a shot of circle, circle, dot, dot
was the only form of protection you could ever need.
So you told me to write about my experiences,
but what have I really experienced?
I grew up in privileged middle-class suberbia
where there was always food on the table,
something on the television,
and if the soles of my shoes got too worn
I could drive to the mall and buy another pair.
Then you suggested I write what I know,
but what do I know?
I'm just a kid parading as a man
who's a half-step from a back-step
away from having his back up against a wall