Little man, where will you sleep when the world comes to an end? Will there be anything else to complain about? Is there any mission in hating everything you see?
Little man, you are much taller than me, but your head is hollow. You have a way of believing the world will be a better place once you've destroyed it. And you puff up your chest with words you hear your friends spit out. They say people look for themselves in their pets; is that why you want a parrot?
Little man, you hate your career and you have the guts to hate mine, too. You love to tell me it's not ideal to have my ideals. Why is it so hard for you to understand people can be happy even if you aren't?
Little man, you are sad as a Tuesday night out, with your third drink and your spectatorship to the girl you love and the guy you hate. They were dancing on ice while ice danced in your glass.
Little man, making enemies out of everyone in his way; you are your own worst enemy. There's a hint of you in me, and that's my compassion for you.
Little man, you never taught me much, but I'll give you this. You can tell a lot about a man from where he aims when he's peeing.
Little man, you've made your bed and I've had to sleep in it for so long. I wish you'd sleep, too, some nights.
YOU ARE READING
Flights of Fancy
PoetryThere is another dimension beyond that which is known to fictional characters. A collection of short stories, poems, snippets, vignettes, and everything else that crosses my mind and has no place in my current publications, or is waiting in the wing...
