Life is short,

          though I keep this from my children.

Life is short,

          and I've shortened mine

                              in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
                              a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways



                              I'll keep from my children. The world is at least
                              fifty percent terrible, and that's a conservative
                              estimate, though I keep this from my children.



                              For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.



                              For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
                              sunk in a lake.

Life is short,

          and the world is at least half terrible,

                              and for every kind stranger,
                              there is one who would break you,
                              though I keep this from my children.


                              I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
                              walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
                              about good bones: This place could be beautiful, right?


                              You could make this place beautiful.