novel vision fades with real life attitude
like the letters on my old street's graffiti
Now I wave at the travelers passing by
but I remember a boy dreaming of being wild
there used to be a marching band in my legs
cheering me on as I take each step
now there's broken drum sticks strewn in my feet
I hear god's stride like a wooden floor's weighted creak
give me answers, give me clues
give me anything, what am I to you
I'm a horse to break, a hen to produce
I'm a fly in the coffee, struggling to die
summer was cruel for a wayward kid
a lonely sanctum for two to three months
but as soon as it arrived it was handing out goodbyes
we were left to figure ourselves out in plain sight
Christmas had less martyr than an average holiday
but they treated it kindly, said their prayers
we consumed like we were told, flew the seasonal colors
but were left as lonely as before
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