Past Noon on a Sunday (How I Gave Up The American Dream)

He woke up past noon
To the sound of the grass
Being forced not to grow tall,
And a white picket fence
Having its gate swung open.

As he arched his back,
He silently wondered
Where he'd been all his life
And why he'd let it all
Become like this.

This comfortable life
With a nuclear family,
A steady job,
A big house.
This was not his life.

He missed his old friends,
His grungy apartment,
Not knowing where
His next paycheck was coming from.
He missed his dreams.

This life was not a life.
This life was a dull mess
Of security and monotony,
Made better only slightly
By mediocre sex with his wife.

Thinking of the damned woman
Had made her appear
At his side, questioning
Ever so softly
"What's wrong, dear?"

He said not a thing
But simply got up
Stretched his arms above his head
And walked out of the house,
Still shirtless from his sleep.

He wanted to go somewhere dangerous
He wanted to perform and fuck
And scream and live
And try and fail.
He wanted his dreams back.