Sure, I would rather be awake than asleep I would rather lay beneath the vast infinity of The sky than Beneath the peeing paint and Faded glow-in-the-dark stars (Dollar tree, of course) Of my bedroom ceiling - But someone has to act first, and it’s Not going to be me. Think of any Messiah, Any Jesus Christ or Greta Thunberg, I guess. They ended up how? Nails in palms, Palms full of blood, Pressed to a cross Or ripped to shreds by the press. You’re crazy or you’re fake, Or you’re a rude, radical bitch. So yes, I will grow older and Let my will be taken away day to day I will shift from watering cans full of flowers And handfuls of ferns And dark, earthy moss to Things that force me to laugh (Because I’ve forgotten how) And things that make me feel numb (Because nothing is worth feeling anymore) It’s either shoot or get shot, So I am launching a preemptive Initiative to do nothing, To stand with my palms pressed Against the cold glass of my window As I watch my Disoriented friend back his car Over the garden I planted when I was nine, Trying to ignore the sunlight And the way the whole room smells like spring.