Granola

You call me an orator of peace

like you think it’s cute

that I have causes and I think.

The running joke that

I stargaze and hug trees

is bordering somewhere between

‘Are you f*****g kidding me with this s**t?’

and ‘I’m just too sick of it to care anymore.’

Why can’t you just let me live

my own way, without calling me out

like an orange that ended up in the apple bin?

Why do you lump me in

with granola, patchouli, and Birkenstocks?

I’m sick of the f*****g stereotype and

the jeers I get from the ‘By God I’m an American’ committee.

Is it tears that you’re so hard pressed to squeeze from me?

Or do you get off when I fail miserably at ignoring your shallow existence?