adaptation
worried. tired. addicted. jobless. scared.
soar throat. cant stop. restless. anxious. jittery.
english class. philosophy class. stuffy. hot. my brain is alive again. but i feel cold.
lost faces of high school in every corner. pockets of the past. dazed. cigarette. sore. apathetic.
change is hard to notice with my head in the clouds. sky. sun. rain. clouds. windsheildwipers. music.
yesterdays gone and tomorrow will soon be old news. only now remains. ten million speeding colliding thoughts. thoughts thought laying on cold damp pavement. x marks the spot. eyes on the sky hands folded into hands calmed by highway traffic. machines zooming and chugging by, perpelled by a monotone metallic hum, and i, stagnant, skin,nerves,muscle,ticking beat, find solace. summer has come and gone and we walk the bridge and back. suspended in time, suspended over angry ocean currents. suspended between our hometown and the future, and i pray to stay suspended. summer is over and time cant stand still. tapping foot. scratchy cigarette. dripping sweat and tender glances.
another season begins. people scatter and i float. happy to see that people are people everywhere. pompous mammals, sprawling, progressive, and lost. but floating has lost its romanticism. floating in and out of other lives and communities i feel isolated again. isolated in a hometown with a new face, feeling like a trespasser. landmarks so full with peices of now foreign pasts that they all seem to blend together. but peices of me hide in pockets of towns and cities and in pockets of yours, and this is where i find comfort.
tonight.last night at my little home on winter street. dirty. smelly. filled with testosterone and bugs. paradise. returned too late and ive never seen it look so calm. everyone's asleep. slidding door jammed. keys. keys. but they are his keys now and his room now. locked out. hopeless knocking and i hesitate to continue, realizing its their home now. and now is all there is. a peice of me will stay there in a nook and i keep peices of you in pockets hoping you will come back. but our surreal world is lost somewhere between now and the past. i miss how powerful and enormous we made each other. now im too small to defend myself. i feel too old and i lost the power to read minds. i turn around and drive away, daydreaming about natural disasters. the end of the world. the irony of the flood. pockets forming in a forced superdome society. anarchy let loose in southern communities. 'the greatest country in the world' doesnt look so great anymore.
soon enough tomorrow will be now and all my things will ride in bob's truck to my next home on court street. clutter. stuff. books. over bumps, holes, pavement, and one mile will never seem so far. but float on. acquired things and an acquired perspective. adaptation sets in.
soar throat. cant stop. restless. anxious. jittery.
english class. philosophy class. stuffy. hot. my brain is alive again. but i feel cold.
lost faces of high school in every corner. pockets of the past. dazed. cigarette. sore. apathetic.
change is hard to notice with my head in the clouds. sky. sun. rain. clouds. windsheildwipers. music.
yesterdays gone and tomorrow will soon be old news. only now remains. ten million speeding colliding thoughts. thoughts thought laying on cold damp pavement. x marks the spot. eyes on the sky hands folded into hands calmed by highway traffic. machines zooming and chugging by, perpelled by a monotone metallic hum, and i, stagnant, skin,nerves,muscle,ticking beat, find solace. summer has come and gone and we walk the bridge and back. suspended in time, suspended over angry ocean currents. suspended between our hometown and the future, and i pray to stay suspended. summer is over and time cant stand still. tapping foot. scratchy cigarette. dripping sweat and tender glances.
another season begins. people scatter and i float. happy to see that people are people everywhere. pompous mammals, sprawling, progressive, and lost. but floating has lost its romanticism. floating in and out of other lives and communities i feel isolated again. isolated in a hometown with a new face, feeling like a trespasser. landmarks so full with peices of now foreign pasts that they all seem to blend together. but peices of me hide in pockets of towns and cities and in pockets of yours, and this is where i find comfort.
tonight.last night at my little home on winter street. dirty. smelly. filled with testosterone and bugs. paradise. returned too late and ive never seen it look so calm. everyone's asleep. slidding door jammed. keys. keys. but they are his keys now and his room now. locked out. hopeless knocking and i hesitate to continue, realizing its their home now. and now is all there is. a peice of me will stay there in a nook and i keep peices of you in pockets hoping you will come back. but our surreal world is lost somewhere between now and the past. i miss how powerful and enormous we made each other. now im too small to defend myself. i feel too old and i lost the power to read minds. i turn around and drive away, daydreaming about natural disasters. the end of the world. the irony of the flood. pockets forming in a forced superdome society. anarchy let loose in southern communities. 'the greatest country in the world' doesnt look so great anymore.
soon enough tomorrow will be now and all my things will ride in bob's truck to my next home on court street. clutter. stuff. books. over bumps, holes, pavement, and one mile will never seem so far. but float on. acquired things and an acquired perspective. adaptation sets in.