These days are a bag of tortilla chips left opened for a fortnight
Practically impossible to skate about the surface of them
But naively deeming them to be stale and worn doesn’t express the truth
That indirectly appears in even the most thick, steamy yarns

Just appearing to be dancing a ballet of sweet ignorance
But all the while knowing that inside your voice calls the lyrical flutters
Of leaves over a cool vent
During nights that lead to diverse and ever rolling idealist notions

I, for one, have never noticed the wheat
On the side of the road
Always looking but never seeing the oasis
Behind their whisper
Their harmonies swishing with sorrow and knowing
That I being so young have been unable to grasp

Unable to save just one tiny grain of sand from
What I look at but never quite see
Constantly looking behind
And unwilling to spill the stale chips that I clutch
So tightly
Not sure why I can’t accept but sure that I can change
What has been unfolded by altering the very consistency of myself

Taking the worn paper from beneath my sock
Next to my big toe
And searching for the ever-changing value of x
With all the cosine breezes floating through my subconscious

For even from all my time spent with wisdom and knowledge
I can only seem to vomit up recycled beer bottles
That my pupils recognize from their own journeys
If only my life wasn’t a cliché