I hate the question

"How are you?"

Beacuse it's pointless

The answer will always be an empty promise

"Good."

And it's almost never the truth 

We ask the question because when we are young

We are taught it is the polite thing to do 

Yet at the same time we learn 

Learn that we don't care for an answer 

And when people say 

"Good"

I know it's a lie 

Because we can look

At the hands of a mother

Whose figers are stretched too far 

Around a crippling ball of stress and depression 

She will say

"Good" 

She has to deal with crying kids, and overdue bills

And knows well that you or anyone who asks 

Has better things to do 

And we can look into the eyes of a little girl

Who has just been told her dad won't be coming home

But she has grown up watching 

A brother who said

"Good" 

Even though he had no man to teach him how to grow up 

And a mother who went to the bottle 

Every night 

Out of the sadness of having a love worlds away 

They replied with the broken phase 

"Good"

So the girl says

"Good" 

And hides the tears that have soaked her sleeve

And we can look at the back of a man 

Who grew up carying his little brother 

Because his mom was drinking from an I.V. 

Laying motionless in a hospital bed

Dad running around with girls 

Whose names only represented objects of distraction and escape

And the man's answer will be 

"Good."

And I still don't know if the answer to that question

Is a goal

Is something to hope for

That one day we can answer that question 

"Good."

And be completely honest with our words 

But until then

We accept the careless vowel

To the careless question