Give up on your dreams.
They will only inflate
as you achieve them.
Like the expanding universe,
we will never truly penetrate
the thin skin that contains
our hot ashen breath.
It is far better to poke holes
before you start blowing.
That way, at least you aren’t kidding yourself—
and you are always operating at a diminished capacity,
well within the abilities of a nine year old.
Oh fine.
Don’t follow my advice.
Keep blowing until you feel your eardrums snap
as you watch fragments of your life scatter.
Your dream of touching the edges of this room
with your perfect bubble is impossible.
And once it is gone,
you will never be able to collect all the pieces,
meld them together again—
and have another opportunity to gaze upon
the limitless potential of your empty balloon.
Trust me.
Give up on your dreams.
Be happy with what you achieve
by one shallow breathe.
Don’t push your luck.
Buy low.
Sell low.
If you can do this enough times,
with enough balloons,
you might fill this room after all.
But do not try this with one.
You will only be disappointed
and develop phobias
to ever put your mouth around rubber again.
You will quit all your jobs
and write bad poetry.
You will postpone doing your taxes
in favor of jacking off on your W2’s.
You will become the nastiest creature
and turn your apartment into a cave,
covering all the windows with black construction paper.
You will live inside there and die.
God Damn It.
Do not do this.
Do not keep blowing into that fucking balloon.
You are going to have nothing left if you keep this up.
I’m not going to stay and watch this.
You can fucking ruin your own life.
Fuck you.
Why are you doing this?
Do you think you have the right to do whatever you want just because you can?
Do you think women will like you and overlook your pathetic stoop if you just become talented enough and have the world’s biggest balloon?
What the fuck is wrong with you?
Nobody cares.
Look at that thing, it’s the size of a car—
but it’s not a car.
It’s just a piece of rubber.
It’s just a balloon.
I’m warning you—that thing is going to explode and you might go right with it.
What the fuck, man?
More air is in that balloon than is left in this room,
We’re all going to suffocate.
We’re all going to get swallowed up
and pushed inside that thing.
I don’t want to live in there with your hot spit and CO2.
Well holy hell man, tie that thing off.
I think you did it— that thing is the size of this room.
Holy shit.
It hasn’t exploded.
What the fuck is that sucker made from?

“Dreams. This balloon is made from dreams.”

Well congratulations, this is the corniest mother fucking ending to any piece of shit poem I’ve ever gotten involved with.

Fuck you.

written on 04/06/2010 by: Matt Kane