I often find myself running,
And often times when I gain momentum,
I feel myself falling on my ass yet again
As I attempt to kick containers of causticity out of my life.
On many days,
I do feel like a blockhead,
Like I was born to lose
With every attempt I make to succeed.
I am the next-door neighbor of mental instability
And I want my security deposit back.
I fight with myself every day
To keep myself from sinking into old patterns.
To not feel the breeze against my hair one minute
And then feel my confidence get caught in the trees the next minute.
Maybe there are days
Where I wish I could be as idealistic as I used to be.
To have dreams as massive as pumpkins.
To find security in a blanket.
To seek out beauty within the most feeble of saplings.
To have lived long enough
That the advice I give is at the very least worth a dime.
To not feel outdone by everybody around me
Including my dog.
I'd like to think
That I'm a good man,
But good fucking grief!
Why do I always wind up feeling this way?
Ostracized, introverted, and lonely.
Perhaps these animated figures of my youth
Represented what I would often face in life.
Maybe we all feel censured in one form or another
And we all find ways to compensate for that.
Maybe at some point in the near future
I will be successful
In putting some kind of humorous spin
On the debilitating stigma of being what I am.
Maybe we'll all be able to rise above
The beings of which belligerence is a bailiwick.
Maybe all of these feelings will pass in a few minutes.
Maybe some of these catalysts for emotional regression have antidotes.
Maybe they're right in front of me.
Maybe I'm taking them now.
Maybe it is OK to be good ol' me.

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