People these days are all the same.
I feel like I’m living in a 1950’s movie again
With all the cookie cutter houses and
Pregnant, barefoot wives in the kitchen.
We are all expected to fill a spot
And just stay there forever, never move or shift,
And live in our house that’s just like our neighbors’
And leave the wool over our eyes and never lift it.
I often think that the copy machine that was
Churning out humanity, each person the same,
Jammed when it got to me,
And I was a little different when I came.

I don’t want to live behind a white picket fence,
And I don’t want to live my life blind.
I don’t want to be baby maker, or a cook,
And I refuse to fill my spot and never use my mind.
No, I will live in a Gothic mansion
With my transgender wife
Who works on cars while I go to work at what makes me happy,
And I will make my own place in life.
Those copies that didn’t jam the machine
Can b**** and moan and whine,
And peck at me like a swarm of black birds,
But I won’t care; this life is mine!
It is what I make it,
And I don’t like the rules you made,
So I won’t follow them.
I won’t let my true self fade.