Pack the car

Let’s go on a road trip 

We’ll camp beneath the stars

Every chance we get

Wake to roadhouse breakfast

And a decent cup of coffee

All along the way

From one coast to the other

And when we hit that shoreline

We’ll get a boat

And sail around the world

Docking in every port

Taking in the breath of cultures

We never imagined existed

And try exotic cuisine 

That seemed questionable at the time

But tasted delicious

As it settled in our stomachs

And we’ll know every corner of this Earth

And finally be able to call it our home

And as our wanderlust satisfies

We’ll take off to the skies

Far past the atmosphere

And into an even greater unknown

I am the salmon
that struggled all the way up to the bear.

Been working all day long
My hands are soiled
And my mind is gone

Been working all day long
There's dirt beneath my fingernails
As I strum these strings along

Been working all day long
Not a dime to my name
Somehow it all feels wrong

Been working all day long
Fattening another man's pockets
In a job he don't belong

Been working all day long
Busting my knuckles
And singing this work song

The more you move up in the world the more you get paid.
The more you get paid the more you accustom yourself to a way of life.
The more you get accustomed to a way of life the more you forget what living is.

Hop that morning train going down the line
Ride the rails and see the country side
Busk the streets and sleep beneath the stars
Life doesn't wait just because you have bills due.

I haven’t written in ages he thought as he sat down at his desk and stared at the blank piece of lined white notebook paper that stared equally back at him. He grabbed a pen from its holder and noted all the bite marks on the cap and wondered if all were from him or if some of the marks were from former flames, ones that had stood over his shoulder and peered down while he was writing.

He shook the thoughts from his head. It had been a long time since there had been any spark with anyone, hardly enough for a flame.

Ben put the pen nib to the paper and began writing. Words were forming on them but they were not his own and they did not stay. They would fade. They would crumble. They would be as if they never were.

He rubbed his head, paying attention to the bridge between his eyebrows as if the massaging of that one area would elicit an idea.

It did not.

He continued to stare.

The paper continued to stare.

He heard the carbonation fizzing in a gin drink he made before sitting down but could not motivate himself to lift the drink and take it to his lips. He was at a loss and knew there was no way out.

The end of the pen cap rolled onto the floor. The pen followed. Ben slumped down in his seat and rested his head on the paper. He fell asleep and dreamt of robots hunting with Ted Nugent, of swimming in obsidian clouds as the planet below obliterated itself in war, of a girl he knew in college that he had a crush on but never had the guts to talk to. Ben dreamt a thousand dreams and a thousand stories but when he woke up his mind remained blank and full of static.

He stared at the paper.

The paper stared back.

Ben closed his eyes.

The paper continued staring.