This is the battle for everything.
For my Kennylove.
For sleepin, not alone, and not awake.
For strength against the allure of cheekbones and falsities.
For what I want.
For letting go, of what I want.
For the right mouth at the other end of the telephone wire.
For the breathing of bare winter branches.
For splattered ink evidence.
For my own voice against the dripping faucet.
For what my mother calls “feeling centered.”
For fighting what my father blames on the way he was raised.
For saving my sister, my brothers.
For never denying the remnants that are sweepin themselves under the rug.
For the secrecy of a sunriser.
the patience of a night watcher.
the clarity of a bridge jumper.
A battle of waiting.
A battle of hope.
Motorcycle Driveby-- live in Georgia; Third Eye Blind
Can't sleep but its monday.