Driving

Driving
Waiting for something.
Driving
Hiding from nothing.
It's not lasting,
It's strange, significance being skewed or lost.
Broadcasting,
Through a happy blur of avenues and vacant lots.
The rear-view is our comfort
While the windshield frames our fears
They say there's no time like the present
But I don't think I like it here.
I steer clear to the places where
A soul might be relieved,
To be so naive.
Slowly corroding,
Like our neighbors in their architecture, their basements and their bends.
It aches me to see it,
But I know I'll be so far away by then.
I've been toiling in the soils of what became of our youth,
& I've been looking for answers and searching for proof
That we are more than psychology and skin.
Is the pruning of sensation just a trial of time?
Are these just valves of steal, four rubber wheels, and a ride?
Or a rite of passage in a world closing in?
Emily, I want to feel alive
But you could not hear me anymore
Because you've been waiting all this time
And suddenly, I could feel their points of view
Who was I to try and be someone?
Who was I to try and drive away from you?