Desperately trying to be clever
A monkey with nothing up my sleeves
Standing on my head
Claiming I’m seeing everything fresh
That I’m revolutionary, individual.
“Come closer,” she whispers.
“Your comedy of intuition is done.”
Clamping down with iron control
Conformity smoothing out rough edges
Till I’m perfectly spherical
Staring out the window longingly
I see the lights decorate the city
As seemingly content
People mill from place to place
Their downpour on the inside