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.