Back Roads

kick the city of green in the dick: working on arlington and massillon road at the same time is a brilliant idea, really.
if nothing else,
i have, for once, a legitimate excuse to navigate those back roads like i was born to.
'how do you even know where to go?'
time, practice, patience, and a lot of really bad fucking nights.
these roads out here give you the sense of security no man or book ever could.
turn the music up, scream out the wrong words, you're alone and it feels right.
sometimes it's more than north and south.
it's more what feels right and what feels wrong.
'do you ever look at the stars?'
no,
not anymore.
i look at this bench here,
this pond --my dad's midlife crisis manifested into an object of productivity -- and that is all.
i don't like looking up.
after an entire semester of facts and figures on a blackboard, i see no point.
i'm nothing, you're nothing, and what is happening here? it's whatever.
accept it: it's whatever, nothing more, nothing less.

the roads.
my sentiments, or lack thereof.
the way i feel, or don't.
the numbness, the tingling, the constant inebriated state i'm stuck in,
it's all whatever.

the trails and blankets make twists and turns.
what if you're lost, and you're okay with that?
i don't want anyone to follow me.
maybe i like being sad. maybe i like being the victim.

a magnet on the fridge has little bo peep, alone, all alone, on the back roads.
it reads
'life has been so much easier since i've given up hope.'
behind her trail the sheep,
so i'm right there with her.

but don't follow me.
these back roads are mine.