Delusional, my ass.

If the extent of your validity

on this planet is determined solely by

the admiration you receive

for the sticker price and sticker hype

on your tightly woven threads

you aren’t worth the knuckle cramps it took to make them.

I’m might be incredulous, but they are just threads.

Incredulous. A word you don’t know.

And as you get your costume on in the morning,

one leg at a time,

one insecurity at a time,

fully clothed in your ego armor,

you suddenly feel like you have transformed into Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie.

Yes.

You are an actor too.

Grizzly, my ass.

What I do was never cool. As you say, back in the day.

Mr. Young and Vulnerable, Captain Follower of anything, farcical campy comic zombie.

Farcical. A word you can’t define.

Controlled by bits of fabric.  It’s just Sear’s and Roebuck Fall 1972 over and over again.

You’re easy. Still trying to be something. Still wasting energy- Well LISTEN UP, CHUMP!

I woke up, I’m over the hump, over the bullshit, over the marketing and mania of fitting in-

My skin suit is good enough.

And all the while, glorified clothes-hanger,

you look at me and find yourself

concerned about my footwear fashion statement.

It’s screaming at you, So. not. cool. You’ll hear it whisper later,

When you are my age,

Just be yourself.

Grouchy, my foot!

I could give a shit.

You’re opposed to it, kiddo,

because frankly you don’t understand it, right now.

I can help.

Since you are having trouble deciphering the code

It translates-

In every language known to man as

Fuck you, whippersnapper.