My NonExistent Song
I think this is me being tired.
I think this is me saying goodnight.
I think this is me hanging the last vestiges of my pride on a door hanger
And walking out into the night.
But I really am saying good night.
But am I really saying goodnight?
The alarm clock will ring.
When I don’t pick up,
Is it you on the other end?”
Shutting the door in my face.
I thought I was sleeping
But the advertisement you left by my unhumble abode
Has me spinning in circles,
Unable to snooze the remote.
Is it you, behind the peephole?”
Is it you, in my head?
Is it you, selling my soul?
My only soul.
I think this is me dreaming.
I think this is me running away.
I think this is me coming home to knock on your door.
Where I found your flyer,
The card you left on the knob
Hoping I’d find it
And turn myself into a song.
My only song.
Do you ever sleep?
Do you ever run away?
Do you ever dream?
Do you ever ask me why?
I think this is me singing.
I think this is me selling
My song for a drink and a job.
Why am I paying you to tell the world of my song?
Why am I paying you to hang up my pride on the doors in the neighborhood?
I think this is me falling.
I think this is me rolling over.
I think this is me enjoying the night.
While the trash man drives down the road with my pride.
And it’s cold.
But I’m fine.
Since the trash man just drove away with your life.
Your only life.