I’ll never have the perfect face, be taller than five-five or catch a single freaking break.
Won’t ever love mornings, follow crosswalk warnings or adore myself the way you do me.
I’ll never tolerate the boring things, know how to sing without butchering the lyrics,
write poems that don’t cuss because I don’t give a fuck about appearance, slash conformity.
Don’t give a damn if you mourn me or not, gloss over all the awkward to author fiction.
I’ll never oppose these antisocial quirks, even when diction fails them. I’ll never be the alpha male,
just as some never bear to
I’ll never be older than sixteen and self-loathing, chasing some girl I inappropriately fell in love with,
knowing I’m the
she actually covets, but she’ll always be a
character to me.
All these things I’ll never be, and
yet you don’t look
hopeless enough to flee.
It’s all the denouement I could ever want, but one does dream,
You can read more of Nicholas’ work at Free Verse Revolution