August Thorn

Down the Interstate, 

Stuffed in an SUV, 

A perfect suburban one. 

You shake your knees. 

Mom tells you to stop shaking. 

I got nothing. 

But this. 

It’s 1 AM. 

But the mind’s at work. 

Ideas come and go. 

Sleep sweeps away all of that. 

You hold tight,

Grasping til death.

Yet it gets away.

You blame it.

Or you blame the world.

Or you blame yourself.