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The Whirlwind

You wake up in the middle of it,
Grease is the word haven’t you
heard, trying to learn “cool” at
the same time as “nice”—

Which is greater?

Moving, shaking, the dance
begins your mind is aching from
the:

Dreams you have all alone in your
room, matched to the: cold reality
of all the things you can’t do.

Nothing way-out or indigestible
would be if something like a Higher
Power you could hire even at a young
age see;

Something goes on and on, and it’s hope—
and it lives between your room
and your path. Cool wants you
in his refrigerator, is lonely for your
food.

“Nice” is all around, seems too easy,
so you keep looking, sampling
misery like all the other flavors
at your local bar, fake ID’s checked
by fake boobies, all working out
at another local hangout: the gym.

The whirlwind whirls on and on with
hope, be careful not to lose sight of
will as you declare “self-doubt” at last
as your E.R. check-in diagnosis, a
mononucleosis of all those frozen
wishes trapped by cool in that Fridge.

We open up at last, one day, shake
the frost and enter the nice warm
rays of nice, decide to be nice is
the best dream, and something
universally we can do!

Warm now, calmed down, we know
how to play hard but also how to
sit down, read, write, relax—we smell
roses in the warmer air of care,
pass them along to others, reaching
back to Cool without getting burned,

We hope. We Hope

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