This poem came from a place of realizing that people are more similar than you could imagine, but not necessarily in a good way. You can never really know how much you’ve hurt people.
Because maybe every street of our lives is a dead end
We start driving and we end up on a cul de sac where nobody cares what their houses look like and thus, are all bright and colorful
But we get bored of there
Because maybe every street of our lives is a dead end
So we drive some more and we end up on yet another cul de sac where the houses look a little more alike and girls in prettiest pink push us over
And we tolerate them for a while, but then we leave
Because maybe every street of our lives is a dead end
So we drive further to distance ourselves and it’s yet another cul de sac and the houses are more drab and now, the girls who push us over wear muted colors
We tolerate them even less
Because maybe every street of our lives is a dead end
So we drive, drive, drive and there’s another cul de sac and we are all the same and now the girls wear American Eagle and Aeropostale
And we hate it all
Because maybe every street of our lives is a dead end
So there’s more driving and now the houses blur together and the pushing girls wear Ann Taylor and destroy careers instead of knees
And we want out
Because maybe every street of our lives is a dead end
And we drive back to that first cul de sac, where nobody is pushing and everybody is different and we stand in the middle of it all, wondering where it went wrong
And we look for the girls who pushed us, and we can’t see them
They are the same as the others
They are the others
They are us
They push us, and we push someone else in anger, and they push yet another person
This is the dead end, hiding our anger and misery and pretending like we are different from the pushing girls
Because
Maybe every street of our lives is a dead end
