The driveway of my house has potholes and washed up chalk residue.
Markings from bike tires and cars that come and go.
I try and try to get to the car by the curb that’s been parked there since I was born,
But the driveway seems to get longer and longer, and longer.
My house sits at the back end of this driveway.
With traps that visitors can’t seem to find,
And yelling matches that can’t be heard through it’s impervious walls.
And so I run and run and run, never reaching the end of this dumb driveway.
If you ask the people who have or haven't reached their car,
They all have different opinions.
It all depends on the person-- no… the past.
Who’s been seen, who’s been heard, who’s been loved, and who’s been misunderstood.
We may be wrong, or we may be right
But we don’t care
Because all we want to do is reach the gosh **** car at the end of this Rotten driveway
That feels longer every time we trip, fall, or bend to re-tie our porous shoes
I don’t yet understand that these falls and knots that I make now will help me to learn to drive,
So when I reach that car on this idiotic driveway’s curb
I’ll be able to grasp the steering wheel
And drive, away of course.
When I back out of this rundown, beat-up, defeated driveway
I’ll think of the path it took me on.
Maybe all the scratches and bruises I’ll have by the end of this pavement
Will tell me different tales from the perspective of the rocks and cement.
Life seems rough looking back at the torn up house from this ever-stretching driveway,
Because no one remembers the good,
the colorful chalk pictures and the shiny new bikes
And maybe we won’t ever remember unless it’s all behind us and we reach that car on the curb of this
gosh ****, ever-stretching, rundown, beat-up, defeated, dumb, idiotic, Rotten, long, long, long driveway,
But i will always call it home.
