Thoughts float around my head
like lizards with wings.
They don’t land right.
They don’t settle.
They just circle the same air.
Like the world put a fog machine in my mind.
Maybe it’s still in me,
whatever was in me last night.
Whatever lingers after something like that.
Half memory, half chemical nightmare.
Or maybe it’s just me.
Humanity has cut a groove in my soul.
Golf in my head too.
Second shots I keep replaying.
Putting that should have been simpler than it is.
The small mistakes that echo when I close my eyes.
And people.
Always ******* people.
The noise of them.
The pace of them.
The way they smell in the demented moonlight.
Maybe they don’t realize
how loud they are
inside their own thinking.
Patience flew away
like that drive on the ninth hole.
I don’t have room for anything
that doesn’t come out clean.
Even writing feels slow and jaded,
like I’m standing next to myself,
waiting for the better version of me
to suit up and start running.
But he doesn’t show.
Not lately.
Just tired back,
small focus,
a mind still pulsating
from residue I shouldn’t have gambled on.
Maybe I just need sleep,
or better putts,
or a quieter world.
Or maybe it’s the expectations
I haven’t learned to tame.
Things don’t settle
the way they do in the classic novels.
Right now, my thoughts are like ants
trapped in honey.
Like lizards with wings
that just keep circling
and forget the ground
is the safer option.