"My Candle Burns At Both Ends"

I packed all of my things,
into a nike duffel bag,
and walked out into a blue morning,
into a small van with six friends.

Most of our time spent,
driving, waiting, sitting,
coarse straps of nylon,
wrapping us safely together.
The warm summer air my blanket,
a side panel door or a shoulder my pillow,
off ramp and on ramp,
starbucks bottled espressos fighting sleep.

Those bottles ringing off the pavement,
80 miles an hour down an empty road,
the spark of bright light and loud shatter,
dives deep into Babylon oblivion.
Seemed like we were going nowhere,
and still it feels that way,
All those hard wood floors,
and nights spent in our van.
How days used to seem to run together,
and how moments of insanity,
seem like moments of clarity,
and how the end was written in the creases of our faces.

I've prayed to wake up to those mornings,
to wake up in another place, another town,
All those nights thinking I wanted my own bed,
I find, now, myself addicted to white broken lines.
Sitting together in all those late night diners,
spent so many hours inside my own head,
because the only place I felt at home,
is in a van and on the road.

Twenty minutes of loud expression,
undeserving faces and mis fortunate ears,
ounces of self devourment ripping at cartilage,
sweat, sweat, sweat, for destitution.
This is my perfection. You can't take it from me.