Six Letter Hell
February 2, 2012

They say you can never really have too much of a good thing
And trust me, stress sucks and I’ve got too much of it
It’s the emotional breakdown that wouldn’t back off with
Broken dreams and blushing screams of fears
Streaming through my tears
Shamelessly swallows my pride before I’ve got a chance to catch my breath
Sometimes I wonder where I can go to get a cup of coffee in a big room
And stand up an awkward introduction saying,
    “Hi, I’m Me and I’m a workaholic”
But I’d never make it that far
    Too busy with school I forgot what I was learning
    Spent too much time catching up with the yesterday I never got around to
    Too hard?
        Too bad.
    Take this blood number and squint at it
        Try to find the value hidden between the digits
Trick question: there ain’t none
Oh, back up, my bad
I meant to say “there is none” 
I forgot that in the real world what you say doesn’t matter, only how you say it does
Wait, screw that!
Last time I checked dignity didn’t have a writing requirement, and you could be called courageous whether you spell it with an “i” or an “e”

Ah, forget it
There’s no time or place to dream when you’re trapped in a six letter hell
Maybe there should be
Maybe we should stop calling it time management and start calling it

        Damage control
    “Sorry, kid. It’s only your innocence, it’ll grow back”
Maybe we should spend some time learning about each other
Not studying the sacred scriptures of middle men who left the picture long before it was framed
I could stop my restless ranting and start living all 22 hours of the day
    Or was it 24?
I guess I lost count of how many hours of sleep I’ve lost since the start of six letter hell
Or maybe I just stopped caring

Because we’re the generation of diligent dilettantes
Left to obsess over this excess stress that we struggle without success to address and suppress

Stranded at sea with the stalkers struggling to
    Impress our friends
        but never
    Express our feelings
Who stole our sense of self?
Crowding around our collective consciousness
Scrolling the pages of the MagicBook where it’s all words and no action
Action’s not for us
We’re too politically incorrect to get bogged down with that stuff
Leave it to those radicals
Yeah, those crazies lurking the streets
I saw them on the magic box last week
Wearing war-torn rags,
Waving worn-down white flags down town and wailing about “peace”
I told them it’s my piece, they can get their own
There’s plenty more in this box of careers,
and this game’s only been going for the last sixteen years.