kloiterra

fall break again; a long weekend with no direction, no obligations
but today this freedom is my burden, i pour myself onto the streets
without direction like writing without a point to make.
you'll see.
another substandard and overpriced latte at the Granada
served by a mustachioed man in a black cowboy hat;
kind of ruined before having been given a chance to be as terrible as i remembered.
i walk past the Linden and i wonder what happens inside.
"what a fucking dump," is what the lip reader sees as i contemplate small lives;
the manifestation of small dreams into small victories or overwhelming failures.
the windows are all covered in plastic and foil while the satellite dishes point due south,
only boring people get bored, but the truth is overrated--i was told to avoid it at all costs,
an instruction that spelled the freedom to scrutinize the four cell walls
that i didn't even notice that i'd been spending all my time building.
there are men that lead their lives looking for the trail they left
that leads home, tiny bits of impossible things
and today happiness is a choice that can't be made,
i'll not ever claim that i'm not a quitter again, or a champion of anything,
i have little to lose but i've already seen how i'll lose what's left
of my impossible dream, so let me wake to live the dream again,
wake to dream the life again.
it's not sadness, it's in between, waiting anxiously two blocks away,
the flowers left in the yard of the small house
that held a fire last night
and left no one to explain what went wrong.