Another day, another dollar,
Driving to work with those same
Which grip and steer the heart of his vehicle.
He’s finding no safety in these
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.
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.