Sleepless nights turn into worrisome flights.

 Restless thoughts sweeping past the stops.

Solitude is overrated and ignites,

Exaggerations repeating until depletion drops.

But I’m almost twenty-one;

Seeking a pat-on-the-back,

A job “well-done.”

To my critics: lessen your grip, don’t be so pedantic.

 Praying on my knees, I avoid my designated seat.

I have almost accepted the assumption that this is how it is.

Mother told me to stay away from women of the street.

The wicked beat in my heart, I keep it hid.

Is it drifting if I never got in the water?

Sleepless nights turn into worrisome flights.

These are the things I know as a constant bother.

I cannot comprehend with the banging of this bar fight.

It is as though I’ve been put up with;

Stood up.

“I’m drove.”¹

I have loved what ought not to be loved.

It keeps me up at night.

Have I become a systematic drone; flying in the safe zone?

These prayers stack up to embody my bones;

The structure I live in.

I hope this is not my home.

I do not want to be alone.

Sleepless nights turn into worrisome flights.

Solitude is the solo clone.

I fear I have bought the

“Forever alone”

Melodic ringtone’s moan.

If I could just get off of this flight,

And drop off my worries,

Then sleepless nights may break the deception of solitudes insight tonight.

Drove¹  /drōv/ noun: to be in a state of frustration.

*Photograph taken by Marcus Stabenow and cropped by myself. Check him out if you need professional design or photography.