You can’t absorb the world, Tim

It doesn’t work that way.

They’ve got to slosh through the puddles on their own.

The difference it makes, if any at all,

outside of the grey.

The world that complicates

Puddles into tidal waves

The ocean swallows with disregard.

With a blue-tinged smile,

and sea foam a mile wide.

Garage Stalemate

Digested and spit out.
Look at what we’ve become.
All the things I’ve done.
You thought we’d come around,
the passing traffic pays no mind
to the hum; streets and pavements
grounded over a lifetime of small favors,
repairs and traction for us to run each other>>>>>
out of our lives.
Who knew this place was sarcophagus-like
and stripped of imagination?
Pulled the vehicle in slowly and let the engine run,
no daylight exhumed and the garage door shut.
I manage to escape the fumes
because nothing can exist in the dark,
smothered by exhaust
deterred by retaliation.

Song #15

Here’s a rough scratch of a song with verse and chorus tentatively called What’s Left (of me):

Maybe you had it right all along, no freedom without sacrifice.
Life with blinders on- everything you were told; bought or sold.

See it for what it is, a complete void, used cartridges spent on the bathroom floor.
You had me by the head, heart bore into the apocalypse & you owe me this. Under closed eyelids

So here. Here’s what’s left of me.