My fingers stumble over the strings,
over the flicker-book of life;
missing half of the important things
going on around me
until they have been and gone
and never to return again.
Childish lapses cause me to stare at the ceiling
through important demonstrations
that could save my life some day-
I always begin to imagine
my fatal accident
at the hand of a misplaced floor sign
as I sign the contracts
for those I feel no loyalty for,
in a signature my jittery hands
can never replicate.
My feet gain their own volition
when approaching anxiety,
and so I never know
if I will run away,
or run into the storm
of half-familiar faces
and half-tolerable anecdotes.
I am still a child, I know,
beyond my lanyard
and half-grown beard,
always dreaming of escape
whilst keeping close to home.