Monday, June 11, 2012
The plastered-on smiles, they're everywhere
Everyone encourages me to get one too
But I'm not like that.
I don't smile like that.
If anything, I smile small.
It's not always there,
But it's brilliant when it is.
Plastic people, plastic smiles,
That's all I see.
Everything seems plastic.
Fake, rubbery, and expendable,
That's what plastic is.
They may want to be plastic, but I'm NOT.
I want to be real, to move, to live.
I want to lay on real grass, and pick real flowers,
Not to lay a smooth, flat, green-painted concrete ground.
Not look at fake flowers that are there for show.
When can I meet someone real?