Sitting in the passenger seat
Driving down the highway
Cars passing us at the speed of light
The music fills the car
The sweet melodies
Creating vivid images in my mind
The figures dance across my vision
Like I'm watching a movie
I want to stay
In this trance like state forever
But then my mother speaks
And her voice breaks my reverie

i feel like a thief.

all i do is steal.

i steal views,
and feelings,
and songs,
and glances.

and sometimes i drive home from work a certain way,
slow down more than usual,
pray the sky is clear enough
just to see the city from afar.

some nights i take a long way home,
just to roam around a little more,
just to be able to sit a while longer in this freedom.
i would chase this feeling around the world.

and sometimes i sit a little longer in my car,
to listen to another song
play over and over again -
just to feel the lyrics echo through me once more.  

and i look at people a little more in the eyes,
a little longer than i should.
let my eyes wander over their cheekbones and lips,
hoping i can memorise the way they form words on their tongue.

the point is
i steal.
in the hope of feeling something
a little longer than i have the right to.

it's late August
the roads are still quiet
while a workforce
bronze in European sun
and children
sleep till noon on seemingly
endless summer holidays
staving off the winter blues
just around the corner
with Christmas decorations
already in the shops
the big push to do it all again
bigger and better than last year
is on
but today I am content
in this moment
almost
just almost
happy to drive to work

I reach
For my dreams
I create the seams
That thread
The separate pieces
Together.

let's go back
to the nights
in your car
when simple
was our middle
name

What price adventure
When the risk outweighs the venture,
No dishonor not to start,
Merely you just being smart.

If compunction is the cause,
That adrenaline rush which draws,
Take a breath and think it through,
Is the only one affected - you?

Does bravery need be so foolhardy,
With reason as an afterthought and tardy,
When blind desire clearly trumps all thought,
For ego trips that can be simply bought.

Extreme tourism knows no other name,
Never quite the path to everlasting fame,
At best it gives a sudden winded rush,
At worst with Death itself you'll surely brush.

So many have regardless met such fate,
Gone far too soon before their fated date,
For every mountain peak or ocean deep,
Lie countless graves where mothers sadly weep.