Mad-Lived.

I’ll sit here and look out across the grass
Out as far as I could ever hope to see
From this broken bench
In yet another nameless park.
I’ll sit, and I’ll write.
I’ll write like I always wished I could when I was a little kid
With words that inspire others to get out and
DO SOMETHING.
Sitting on that broken bench with pen to paper,
Humming along to words I don’t know-
Words I won’t ever know-
I’ll make a point to make a point.
There doesn’t need to be a certain subject
Just words strung together
That makes a chain of meaning that
Hangs heavily around your weary neck.
Weighing you down with knowledge
And a profound sense of rightness
That you’ve yet to find anywhere else.
A new meaning for each person,
A different purpose for each waiting soul.
Telling you to:
Reconcile with a mother, brother, father, uncle
Make that last attempt,
Or do that thing, you know,
That one.
The one you always, always promised yourself that you’d do.
I’ll write the story out for you
Filled with blank lines like a giant mad-lib,
And you can pick your own nouns, pronouns and prepositions.
You can write your own story with mine
And you don’t even have to give me credit
On one condition.
I’ll write your beginning,
But promise me,
Just promise
To make it yours
And only yours.
And try, if you can,
To write the ending yourself.