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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