When I'm twenty-four,
I suppose I'll write like that too.
Maybe I'll have found imagery by then;
maybe I'll have found you.
When I'm twenty-four,
maybe I'll go blonde for a year.
See if I'd have more fun,
a little less fear.
(If false perceptions wilt in platinum glare.)
They say I look smart now,
thick-framed glasses, mousey brown hair.
A down-turned smile
never really looks happy.
When I'm twenty-four maybe I will be.
Maybe I'll move to Brooklyn.
Get a desk job, a crummy apartment,
and write till I can't stand the sound of it.
When I'm twenty-four, maybe I'll get around to it.

Nowhere near finished.

11/05/2001

Posted on 11/05/2001
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