These Are the Thoughts

These are the thoughts that go through my head
In my backyard on a Sunday afternoon
When I have the house to myself and I am not
Expending all that energy on fighting
With my boyfriend
Is he the one that I will marry
And why's it so hard to be good to myself?
And why do I feel cellularly alone?
Am I supposed to live in this crazy city
You mean I'm not acorn

Where does the money go that I send
To charities, if we have so much why do some people have
Nothing, still why do I feel frantic when I
First wake up in the morning?
Why do you say you are spiritual
Yet you treat people like shit?

How can you say you're close to God, and yet you talk behind
My back as though I'm not a part of you, why do you say "I'm fine"
When it's obvious you are not, why's it so hard to tell you what I want
Why can't you just read my mind?

Why do I fear that the quieter I am
The less people will listen
Why do I care whether you like me or not
Why's it so hard for me to be angry
Why's it so hard to become passionate and so easy to get stuck
And not the other way around

Will I ever move back to Canada
Can I be with a lover with whom I am a student
And a master, why am I encouraged to shut my mouth
When it gets too close to home, why cannot I
Live in the moment