Schema

Bearing children in color palettes
and wandering without an aimlessness at all
It becomes too cold to hold a period
While you watch the smoke stain the white-washed wall.

You've bought all you need to re-carpet
You're swallowing your pride
And when it's harder to express your feelings
You impress what you've started to hide.

Dialogue doesn't write itself
Nor either do the constellation radio stars
Superstitiously making an effort
To project Grease on the dark side of Mars.

It's everybody's birthday
But no one's day of birth
Likening themselves to rounded marks
They question their own worth.

I'm bringing in my matches to the office store
To burn up all the calendars they're holding in their stock
Because it's sickening to count the days like they're too old to matter
And watch the seconds tick away off the clock.