I'm good with words but I can't organize them.
A million sentences float through my synapses in a stormy sea of thought.
I try to catch them but there's a hole in my net and a leak in my boat.
As if I wrote a million books but they were shredded and now fill my skull.
Fishing out broken sentences.
Sewing together a makeshift rhyme.

There's a certain charm to struggle.
A draw to despair.
It's adventurous.
Sleeping in a car.
No idea where you're headed but you're getting there fast that's for **** sure.
The road is an aching souls best friend.

I run down highways like your lips run down the veins of my arm.
Your eyes shine better than any headlight.
Trying to find your voice in the growl of the engine.
Strife sings from the radio and I can't find my exit.
What good is a map if you carry the destination inside your soul?