8-14-16
I'm not home, no,
The pavement isn't an
Endless supply of freedom.
The moonlight isn't quite as bright,
And the people aren't razor sharp
To the two second look.
I guess the aspects of things
Here aren't as romantic
As they are at home.
I don't feel higher when I swing,
But maybe that's because
August is my worst month
And I find myself being
Swallowed by it like quicksand.
Days are hazy here,
Nights so long (yet addictively lonely in a good way),
I sleep in late,
And waking up is difficult,
It's been difficult.
I think my body is telling me
I'm depressed,
But my mind is still running,
The garage lights are still on
While the crickets are chirping
And my song isn't over yet
Just because I don't
Know what the instrumental
Is right now.
August is something worthy
Of writing about and it captures
Everything you'd assume about
Where I come from,
Yet I just don't know what words to use.
And you know, maybe it's not
Just the month.
Maybe it's a lot,
Like the fact that I haven't been consistently sleep deprived,
Or the fact that up here, I'm alone,
Or add in how you left and
It all hurts like a motherfucker.
I don't know how to get out
Because it's all so numbing
But not in the good way
Like my fingers in February.
I need to start thinking again
Yet that's all I do.
I need to drive until I get to
Something familiar,
Because so far,
Nothing's making me want to stay
Aside from the simple truth-
I can't go back, because it isn't the same and never will be.
I have to keep moving,
That's what I do-
Roll with the punches.
- (m.m)