I am tired of finding pleasure,
in the cup of my hand,
in running away,
from an awful man.

I can't believe,
how much time has passed.
on my own finding pleasure,
I know it won't last.

I know what I want,
how to get there,
I have the drive,
but I can't last.

I don't what I need to do,
I am at an impasse.

I used to hate waking up in the middle of the night,
the gentle glow of a snore resonating from two pipes,
would shake me as my eyes would close,
but now during the rest of the days, you know mon-thurs,
I find that my ears can't take it,
they are tired of being lonely,
scared of not being held by the gentle whisk of a growl,
sad that your half of the bed is being held up,
by 107 miles that separate my ears from you nose.

I feel trees come out of the base of each spinal column,
When I creek in the morning a thousand nesting birds sing for my arrival,
my vascular cambium fillls its lungs with life and breathes it out too,
my only hope is that fire comes and clears the understory for my seeds.

I'm tired of falling asleep with Bill Gates watching my every snore,
YouTube, Hulu, Netflix gluing my eyes open to often persistent demons,
to a constant glow where media seems to live and eminate.

I'm tired of dreaming of lebron James being as good as Michael Jordan,
of being shoved onto a train when my knees ache at the spokes of a bike wheel that I've had since I was was 18,
of being force fed Tyson when prairie chickens used to roam freely across Tennessee.

I used to dream at night,
the blue light filter nonexistant in the glow of a soft yellow,
to crawl next to next to my cats who sleep next to me,
my throat and wrists free of the wires that connect me to a gigabyte speed ethernet port,
I used to not be nauseous when I would wake up.

I gear up every night at 2pm,
for years I would strap myself in,
to rockets and robots and spaceships taking us far away from.

a sleeping bag surrounds me,
like a submarine,
only to be cracked open,
every night at 2pm.

Anytime I go out for breakfast it makes me homesick,
nowhere I have lived, though,
Something that runs in my veins,
Tennessee just isn't wild enough for me.

We don't make gravy with Sausage,
My grandma didn't make it that way,
My mom didn't make it that way,
And me and brother don't either.

So when someone makes me biscuits and gravy,
I often don't like it,
It isn't anything wrong with the flour or fat or meat they put in,
oh wait, there is