Looking up, out and over. We talked it out; it helped.
Moving far, further, furthest. Walking it off and stretching it out as the pain comes.
Think up, up, and away until I punch the clock and shift the gears.
Windows down, raindrops beat the heat.
Upside down; destiny keeps me chunky.
I don’t believe in predestination, but I don’t think I’m supposed to be happy. I think I’m the grease to every squeaky wheel. I’m the lean-to. The middle-man. The cut-off. Because it’s always something; whether of my own doing, or that of the fallen one. There’s always an irritation. Constantly a shifting of mood or tone towards the negative. So often a deviation into stress and worry. At every outlet and intersection. And immediately after all of the good…
This world is terrible and going fast. I don’t think I ever gave myself a chance. I’ve kind of known what I could and couldn’t do. But I don’t think I’ve ever actually believed in myself. I’ve never invested in me. I don’t really know how…
Waking to stale tastes and impatient faces,
praying for endurance and small graces,
I trudge through a typical revolution of this rock
with my grievances and discomforts in tow,
seeing no discernible end in sight,
and hoping for a change.