Our youth is ending, ****** beer and snickers bars swapped for cheap ***** and cold laughs Drip drip, the bottle spills Drip drip our limbs spread out A harmony held high over our heads We swim down stream Our stomachs to the sky All scales and notes and melodies A song composed in an series of summers A song sung through the rocks, our finger tips glow Stinging, slipping, stuttering A stutter, a song stuck in motion An unspoken emotion, stays behind
All I want is to be back at the creek, with you, loving me
It's strange how there are pros in golf, medicine, and even body language, but no one will admit that they are pros at tracing the lines on their thighs from old scars or knowing their hands’ feelings when they see an ex’s face or dodging people’s inquiries about their wellbeing. There are unrecognised experts in all fields of sorrows and pains in our human experiences. Shame that those most familiar with the least explored topics tend to give up or give out while those least familiar attempt to drown the veterans’ cries with I know how you feel You’re not alone It’s okay I understand And we who know best smile and nod, thinking forward to when we will be home alone thinking backward to all that was all that is and when it was simpler and before this.