Can I distance myself from my friends?
Can they let me leave?
When I’m sitting all alone,
on some western shore,
will they notice I’m not at home?
When in plain pleasures I snore,
locked in some forgotten motel room,
will they pretend I don’t breath?
If I sit,
on shoulders rolling flat tires,
with no spare hand to help heave.
I'll shout to them pleased, "I exist!"
When I crossed the Bible belt
I felt an absence of pride.
Will someone shake my hand to pen?
“Most of life is a lie!”
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