Why Is It

The long days spent languishing over someone else’s ideas and dreams leave me too worn out to visit my own. Is it some sort of humor that I don’t get? Memories of the times looking forward into the lights of the oncoming; I feel all those gone before, yet I'm still alone. The american dream, but unable to awaken yet. Bright eyes of children holding on to every word as though it may truly give insight, but deeper looks are required. A future set out, but the price is never fully explained. Elders sifting memories and garbage, trying to find what it was that they left behind - hungry, abandoned and tired. Somewhere a place must exist, where honesty is less strained. I’ve never learned to dance when I can’t hear the music that the band is playing; tho I wish I could. When I was younger I never thought it would be like this. When the day is done you dread holding those long conversations with your thoughts, but wish it would do some good. In this time of plenty, and yet so much emptiness.