Fading.
I feel like I’m fading,
drifting.
Away into the sunset of an unknown planet.
At first I think it’s a desirable course of action.
The grass is always greener,
the sun is alway shinny-er.
-er. Drop an -er on anything.
That’s what it feels like.
Anywhere but here.
But anywhere but here,
Is in-between a rock and a hard place that I won’t go.
And that, honey, makes me jaded.
It makes me angry.
It makes me spend hours in bed, trying to dream
as an alternative.
It makes the muscles in my neck as hard as the
seashells washing upon some over-towled beach.
Seashells that then get stepped on, over and over
Ground into a thin grain.
Sand.
Fading.
Drifitng.
Back and forth with each wave.
A never-ending story.
A tide that doesn’t subside.
One that beats and beats against the side of a ship sailing,
Away into the sunset of an unknown planet.
Sometimes I’m convinced it’s a desirable course of action.
To go to the place where
the grass is always greener.
The sun is always shinny-er.
-er. Drop an -er on anything.
That’s what it feels like,
as I lay here.
Indistinguishable from the sheets.
Anywhere but here.
