Nothing happened
A voice dangles by a thread
from
The end of my rope-
hanging on the air itself
creating its own solidity and form.
Nothing I did could make you proud
[Then or Now]
Tide is always washing it back
and thoughts make me
laugh alone on the bus
[Then cry alone on the step]
Not believing anything actually
turned out This Way-
Straight roads don't do that
but they were never chosen over
what seemed like a better way
[Again with "The Way"- what is this?]
Having trouble sticking to your own
Convincing Convictions
My denial slices into
whole loaves, it's so thick
and so is the place
where it constantly sits
Fresh each day with promises
that are stale by the end
and no good to anyone.
This isn't what you made me to be-
this is a product of Nothing.