America

This is your brain.

This is your brain on drugs.

I want to get out, and through. The fog in my brain leaks out my mouth as I stutter and pause and it shackles my hands behind me. My existence dims as I can’t focus on the here and now. My eyes plead as I hope for someone to hear my soul.

I don’t know whether it was nature or nurture that got me into this. Whatever.

I want to be a nurse, I want to heal with my heart and hands.

I want to travel the country on a motorcycle, with  naught but a backpack and a tent.

I want to come home to a trailer by the sea, with a cat.

I want love, both platonic and otherwise, but right now my plate is empty. I need more color options for my life’s canvas.

I have the words but not the melody.

 

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