The drive home is long.
Where usually I'm surrounded by cedar trees and grass
I see only black skies and cop cars.

Where usually I listen to skinny boys with acoustic guitars
I listen to angry fast-poets with hate to spare.
It's not the same drive
Though I'm on the same road.

I don't get that feeling of serenity
That usually makes itself known between the trees.
That flows between the rivers I cross
And melts into my soul.

Instead I feel an ache in my gut
And the buzzing in my head tells me
Something's coming.
Something I am not ready for.