I am a miserable ****.

Traffic jam thoughts.
Aimless speech.
Fever dreams,
coffee with no cream,
love with no pulse,
alone at restaurants,
            at grocery stores,
            at parties.

I have no identity.

Shifting shape, black to blue,
trading girls, red hair for Persian skin,
parents and gods,
politicians and lost purpose mobs,
all asking me to be sacred,
                            to be loving,
                            to be trusting,
                            to be active,
                            to have no spine.

All I want is a bit of my own time.

A grenade of change,
to end the coagulation of my brain,
to leave me hungry for anything
other than me,
didn't somebody say I was promised something?
                                            I was going somewhere?
                                            I was unique?

I am the same miserable ****,

As every other miserable ****.

The ******* that cut you off on Highway 62,

The person that complained about too many pickles,
on his precious fast food,

The boy yelling at his baby sister for getting too much attention,

The girl sexting your boyfriend,

The boy sexing your girlfriend,

The generation divorcing everyone it knows so it can fall in love with

itself.

All different,
in exactly the same way.

Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
                   Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
            trafficjamthoughts. traffic. Traffic Jam Thoughts. Thoughts.
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Jam.
thoughts. traffic. trafficjam. trafficjam. traffic jam thoughts.traffic.
traffic jam. traffic, traffic, traffic. I am a miserable ****. Traffic jam.

Stary skies
On painted nights
Hearty ties
With scripted fights
Fake, it's just a scene
This actor's world
Can become mean
When you wish to lean your head
On one's shoulder
But you stay at home instead
And the stress makes you look a bit older
And you rather go to bed

Why does it have to be hard?
Why do we cry?
Why do we dream so far?
When are dreams just crash from up high

Director yells cut
And you shrink inside
And you wonder what,
You didn't hide
There no room for your stress
Keep your eyes to the script
It's what director thinks best
Your opinion is skipped

Why does it have to be hard?
Why do we cry?
Why do we dream so far?
When dreams just crash from up high

Less than content with
the content you're left with
corrupted
with eroded shoulders
worn down by
the weight of your potential

don't believe in fate
if god decides to show its face
**** on your words
here that bitter regret
bruising

test the limits
of your passion
of your trust
one is daunting
the other claustrophobic
to be caged so tightly by anxiety

tortured by the thought of imperfection