Another day, another dollar,
Driving to work with those same
White knuckles,
Which grip and steer the heart of his vehicle.
He’s finding no safety in these
seat-belt buckles.
If he doesn’t crash this car himself,
It’d be a miracle.
~
Listening to the same old song
On the American top forty.
He knows his life’s gone wrong,
When his music choice is corny.
~
But, secretly he likes it
~
But, secretly, he wants to die
~
I’m not sure what that says about his music?
~
I suppose it’s to-die-for acoustics.
~
Those white knuckles grip,
Straight in-front of glossy eyes,
If he were to jerk this wheel right now,
No one would be surprised.
~
There’s a valley down and to the right of here.
As the car speeds on, the point draws near.
This would be a great damn spot to steer.
~
The brain says “do it!”
~
The heart says “wait!”
~
He knows he’ll fuck it up,
If he hesitates.
~
As the spot draws near,
His intention grows clear.
~
He grits his teeth,
~
And sheds a tear.
~
Then jerks the wheel,
~
To end up in,
~
A wreck of steel.
~
Yet, he wouldn’t die today for real.
~
Bang!
~
And he was back in his car,
Hands on the wheel,
Sheeran on guitar,
None of it was real.
~
He’d live to tempt fate another day,
And to give death’s plan one more delay,
But for now, it’s time he earns his pay.
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I hope to spread unique content between both of these blogs in the future without recycling.
