Does my life belong to the moon,
or does the moon belong to me?I don't gamble my dopamine any longer,
letting my self respect ride its own race.
It may look as though I am helping her
with her homework but she is helping me.
Like punk rock and pancakes,
my pretense is not wasted.
Only one person looks at me;
only one person sees me.
My sentimentality battles my practicality,
pitchfork first.
My questioning myself will never end:
do cemeteries go out of business?