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