Just how long do I have to suffer
through this pain in my neck
before I decide that I've
been hanging my head for too long?
I'm an unsuccessful success:
The tears of happiness taken out of context,
the euphoria from a guiltily bummed cigarette,
and the drug store, closing time wine, enjoyed because the presented glass can't explain
that it was filled from a box.
I'm the song that you love but can't, for your life, name,
a good deal bought from the commissioned,
the inexplicable awe and elation from an echo,
and the trepidation from a long awaited text message response.
I am the finger removed from the trigger,
reluctantly replaced,
and removed again.
Still living...
I'm together the fear and optimism of the unknown,
the infatuated "I love you,"
and the redundant cliche.
I am this once empty page.
