onemorepanic

Amongst the many.
Or the chosen.
The few that make up the daily predicaments of my daily endeavours.
The fucked secrets that hide behind glass doors, the obvious moments that everyone's too sick to point out.

If we tried, it'd all be happenstance, verbs and phrases linking equations possibly extending sense.

"In all my years on duty as a cop, I never shot my gun in the line of duty, and then one night I just let a bullet fly, right into a yield sign".

Driving past bent yield sign, bullet pierced center, and me with a misplaced debit card, wondering how all could be lost with the possible disappearance of a piece of plastic.
Assuming the consequences that might follow.

Stop to consider, why those that surround you distrust existence as thoroughly as you do?
Everyone with the sob story of social workers, better days and beautiful encounters plaqued with the eternal rot of everyday standard. No one assuming they're good enough to reach tommorrow morning.
Everyone rather stay in bed.
Everyone sit and stink.

Hide ourselves behind our own wounds, behind our own intangent celebrations. Halleujah.
Nothing our own. Everythings just a name dropped.
A fist full of therefores, skin slitted with that's whys, and a brain full of what the fucks.
Slip moments into resistance.
So many ways to explain giving up.
Every try just as tired as the next.