Manufactured love or hate?
The spirit makes me dig for feeling,
or to find out I’m not healing.
Does the universe have a menu big enough for my stomach,
or do I sabotage myself by stealing from my dreams?
Either way I never quite know what they mean.

Gotta run to the next stop,
I’ll find you when I get there,
Gotta get a ******* grip,
I’ll take a break when I get there.
Or I’ll just take a breather while i’m running.

Keep the journal,
Keep the pen,
When I come back the ink is always dry,
So why should I look back to cry?
Write something new,
You can only take a few,
Just keep moving towards what I drew.

Don’t I really know what I want?
Don’t I love and hate?
Don’t I realize there’s space for life in the chaos of an estimated reality?
If I leave enough pieces of myself will it fill up this life?
Or can it just be mine?