a strict regiment
consumes
my nostalgia
these are cheap distractions
this longing is twisted
hidden in every afterthought
lingers destruction
“how could this”
I thought
“be what I want?”
hidden in every hesitation
lives a decision
but I’m caught
in the ‘fight or flight’
with an inferiority complex
“this just might kill me”
home is a radio
and the airwaves whisper
“this isn’t happening”
a pretty noise hums
on the horse, before the cart
home is in your hands
home is in your heart
the transition is fine
the reality is not
my hands are hyacinth
I feel cold
they tell me I’m not
maybe, but
the transition is fine
the reality is not.
