but I can’t think about it now coz
the sun is shining like a well-polished shoe and
life assumes a different rhythm on the weekend
on the weekend i sleep in, cut the grass
wash my shapeless ill-fitting sneakers
recalling the days when everything had a different form
coz
it’s tiring when you have to listen to yourself
let alone when they don’t hear what you’re saying—
all that jazz about developing some skills
and climbing the social ladder
it’s like these curtains repeating the wallpaper pattern
coz i can almost see it
dozens of climbing boots sitting unused in a cupboard
twenty years from now—harmless like empty words
(unless you choose to believe them)
it’s tiring to know they think they’re punishing me
while all along it’s like trying to shoot the teacher
and the gun does not fire