Michael, please

Tell me to move on, up, there,
and I will tear up every
Pro and Con list
etched into the desk,
proof of my frustration.

I need you to pin me down
against my lumpy couch,
stare me in the soul
and preach my destruction
assuming things don't improve.

Show me a street on a map.
New York City, perhaps.
Innundated with
coat-hugging men and women,
People living on purpose.
Point to it and write my name
next to a front door.
(It's red, yes?)

I need you to sing to me.
Make the song cheesy,
But poignant and catchy.
It needs to haunt me
When I get scared,
When my new start corners me
And forces me to face it.

Help me move.
On, up, there.
I'm already there in so many ways.
Put my corpse on a plane
and throw my life in an overhead bin.
Hold my hand as I take off,
Because they always say there is going to be
friction.