The City Made Me Mow My Lawn
Wiping the sweat and holding my back,
I pick up the trash, and you just put it back.
I tend to the forest and pretty the lawn;
You mow it away until it’s all gone.
You ask me for patience, that you’ll get it done
I wait for your progress and often find none
So I begin thinking my own kind of thought,
But you wag your finger and say I ought not.
I spend my days writing and conjuring stories;
“This isn’t about me, and that makes it boring!
Just spend your time wisely, and get back in line!”
But that’s not the nature of freedom or mind.
Perhaps if your world were as good as you say,
I wouldn’t find time to wander away
And seek to befriend, if I’m able to find,
Such folks as can only exist in the mind.
Axians, technons, and sapiofrawns,
They say, “We’re just people!” You tell them they’re wrong,
Asserting your preference and scratching your head,
And wondering why they aren’t like you instead.
Are they a symbol? A plaything? A joke?
If only you’d listened as much as you spoke.
It doesn’t quite matter, now does it, dear readers,
If they are placeholders or fantasy creatures.
We’re not quite the same, and I think that’s alright,
But you act like your pride is a God-given right.
I’m happy to help you live life your own way,
But taking my freedom’s a bad game to play.
So much to see, if you look with both eyes,
Seeking out truth just as often as lies,
Thinking of both and of what they both mean,
And then, too, of what could exist in between.
The way you keep viewing your personal preference-
A bar to be reached, a point to be referenced-
Obscures from your vision a critical truth:
There’s nothing especially special in you.
So pick up your garbage, and give back my lawn;
Perhaps it will grow a new sapiofrawn.
I’ll make them my friend, if they’re willing to share
And give all my stories to someone who cares.
