In the clutches

I want to try all of it.

To waste away with a mark on every list.

Claiming every station as my home.

But I'll never grow better at anything.

I need to find a passion.

That burns like a screaming arrow.

Straight up, into my brain.

Something I can't let loose.

Then I will tear away and drown in it,

like a scrupulous toddler in a picture book,

diving and quaking in my revelations.

I will be defined.

Eventually, all I will be good at will be withering,

taking the scenic route to a wall with no story.

Waiting for someone to turn my chair towards a window.

It's dark with the shades drawn.

But now I can't seem to rest;

I attempt every second second

at each dangerous trinket of a skill.

Something to write home about.

Something to write about alone about.

Waiting for the rights to tell every passerby:

I DID THIS, I DID, I SWEAR, I CAN PROVE IT!

It's a little prideful.

Selfish coin set aspinnin',

and every glance you take,

I'm a different glint of arrogant.

But I'm pretty enough for neutrality.

I share my thoughts much too freely.

Like a barrage of letters

from the same no. 1 fan!

You're already swamped reading the first word.

But I mean well, I mean what I mean;

no malice, no argument, I don't care enough to hate.

But I don't know if I care enough to really give.

Which brings us back to doe.

I need to fire myself from speaking,

a gag, a bandana, a mask, and a lock.

So I will listen for once.

Truly, to listen and dutifully so.

high ho! Onwards towards september!