My Neighbor Likes Mick Jagger.

I've walked the line too many times
to say I'm fine, but I'm not.  Everything is so confusing,
to say the least-I won't let it get in the way of doing
what I'm supposed to be doing, or being who I am,
or being someone else, for that matter, like my grandmother,
who drove a bus during the Vietnam War, got her hand
cut off by a sniper, and basically was a hippie.  I don't
mind hippies, they are wonderful people, full of life,
and zest, and hate violence and war.  I thought war was
violence, or maybe it was the other way around,
just like saying short is not stout, or a way to figure out
the basics of literature that just keep going and going,
until you can't stop.  Basically what I'm saying is this:
make a lot of noise, try to buy a house, be as big as you
can and reach as many people as you can.  Nothing is worse
than saying goodbye, but sometimes it happens, and you
can't explain it or predict it, but it does, and then some people
get away with killing during wartime, and sometimes I'm
a mess, I wake up too late and miss work.  The dreams are
the same, but what I'm saying is different from what other
people have said before me, and before me, and before me.
My neighbor likes Mick Jagger, but I don't mind.