He couldn’t drink the girl pretty
She really wasn’t it, I guess.
I tried to drink her pretty,
And I failed too.
Her name was Life,
Her last name was On-its-terms.
Must be French.
I was stubborn though.
I tried, and I tried, and I tried.
She wasn’t. Stubborn, I mean.
She just was.
She sat there like a rock
And smiled sadly,
Probably hoping I’d get it,
But it took me a while:
Years of anger,
Brain cells wasted in millions,
And hope in fellow men – in shovels,
Only it wasn’t their fault.
False hopes and unrealistic expectations did it.
I cared for things that wasn’t there,
Although all that time I had people
Telling the truth to my face,
Truth I didn’t like.
I always thought Plan B would work,
But I got to letter Z and I was still profoundly fucked.
Now I look at the sky with eyes sober
As the morning dew,
(unless the air got drunk on a whim)
And say “thank you” a lot.
I still try,
You know, coffee it pretty.
But I think it’s a different kick –
No one gets hurt,
And the bills get paid.
She still sits there like a rock,
But I know her smile is happier now.
the front image was copied from https://www.theatlantic.com/science/archive/2018/03/k2-last-problem-of-the-himalayas/554618/. thanks.