One of Those Nights, I Guess

Sometimes it’s just that kind of night

You try the best you can, or might,

To tell yourself that it’s alright

 And what, for real, is with the fright?

_

You have a home, you’re safe and warm

Suburban shelter from all harm

Head rests beside your MacBook Pro

Your iPhone, trophy, 4.0

_

That’s really not what matters, though,

You think, face pressed upon your sheets,

You feel an itching deep inside,

A purpose that you have to meet

_

You have not met.

You start to fret.

“Inadequate,” it whispers, yet.

_

The itch, personified, has voice

Your life’s all emptiness, no choice

Cookie cutter, middle class

Pale, purposeless, and lazy-ass

_

And, whispering Bob Dylan lines,

You wander, wonder, in your mind

What are you for? What is your life?

To not lack depth, must one have strife?

_

But suddenly you hear a door

Another soul is home once more

Unsure of purpose? It’s alright.

Your life won’t be complete tonight.

_

(There will be years to figure out

What eighteen years will dredge to doubt.)

_

That other soul leans on your doorframe

Your doubt and fear turn into more shame

Until you lift your eyes, meet hers

You realize that she’s seen worse

_

That we all feel this way at times

She listens to what’s on your mind

And, there, her arm around your shoulder

You sit up and feel much bolder.

_

Suddenly it hits you. Floored.

Something you’d found cliché before.

A purpose, why you breathe and live,

Lies in the love just you can give. 

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