Roots are Uncomfortable

Maybe I think too hard, rhyme too much, dig too deep.
I can’t find my cigarettes, my surface streets
To shut up the doors, dance in the dark- wild and free.
Where are those familiar surface streets?

Opium for the masses, or the comedown?
Should I wish to swim again on solid ground
So I’m not standing in a ghost town?
I got sick before this solid ground.

Nothing to lose, toes to the edge,
But you can’t build a life on the ledge.
I can’t bring two lives to fledge
If I can’t step off the ledge.

So bury the gypsy in a shoebox near here.
If I make it back this time next year
I’ll dig her up again, I swear,
Unless she finally disappears

Somewhere no one needs her.

About viewingcamelot View all posts by viewingcamelot

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