This is not a tale of sorrow
This is not a beg or plea

It does not take place tomorrow
And this time will never be

It’s from deep beneath the surface
And its shallow just the same
These words do not serve a purpose
And the author has no name

These do not attempt prediction
This is not “I told you so”
This is not a contradiction
It’s not something that you know

You will not find a proposal
And there will be no “Ah-Ha!”
This is not at your disposal—
And this thing cannot be bought

It was written alone in a room full of critics
And no one will read it, and nor do I care
Because I've just decided what I think I'll do with it—
Fold it into an airplane
And toss it in the air