I. We all are cars bound to many appendages Grasping with our minds for beginnings and ends of testaments Always searching for new things and waiting for old to be over Wheels repeating the motions but passing by four leaf clovers
It's over and then it's new when a period repeats itself As my sneakers are on my feet and my flip-flops are on the shelf When I'm driving to the beach, I don't take what I really need My car is eagerly speeding and waiting for steel to bleed
The emotions of us are empty when sensations are rushing through us But while the car is started, not driving is something useless But driving can't be the key when complacence is what the ancients Prescribe for me to survive, but then am I really alive?
II. The engine sputters when journeys become impatient When I'm vibing and also thriving, my shyness is somehow vacant A wait list, a shaking matrix of info, but my lymph nodes Are bored so am I just freezing or will these lists give me meaning?
Defined by numbers and letters is permanent, therefore better Than fluids inside my tubing moving and assigning titles I might pull off this whole trip but my travels would be wetter If my fluids started leaking, so numbers are my revival
My I.D. is nothing like me, my fluids are how I can be. So driving is what provides me with motion and stimulation There's nobody who can stop me unless my motives become empty So what is really plenty? Transit is the vacation