"Take it all... it's yours. I made it for you!"
There's a sycophant in the kitchen' sputters and turns around.
Nothing much to say.
I stand and smile as he turns and continues on his way.
Converstation ended. It's all the talk de jour; nothing too distinguishing,
nothing entirely profound, nothing much by way. I'm not riled.
A bit perturbed, but it's always this way. Never ending... ad nauseum.
There's another on the back porch; a chest that heaves
by way to say, "take it all... I'm yours."
Turning around and back into the fit, thinking "Can't even get
some air around here." I decide to explore an altered melt.
I let her talk away, my foot tracing the ground,
I let her have her way. I'm not riled. A bit put out,
but it's got to be this way.
Happy ending... in nausea.
June 2002, Michael Anderson
(original story version of song from 'Kill the Lights')