It doesn’t feel like a weight
or an isolated incident.
It’s more like a cloudy headed hangover.
The mind knows what it needs
but the body refuses to cooperate.
It’s like sitting with a good book
for hours, no wiser in the end.
Or driving aimlessly
with no set destination.
It doesn’t feel like anything,
really.
Just a relative constant
that comes and stays.
Like an uninvited guest – talkative –
with nothing good to say, whom
upon arrival you wish they would go
but on departure, a part of you wishes they’d stay.
It’s nobodies goal to be addicted,
is it?
It doesn’t feel like anything,
really.
Or something like that.
Words Of An Average White Male 