a wannabe

What do you do
when
you’ve met all the smokers
all the jokers,
all the wanna be cokers?
when
the new hot scene
is already cold and old?

Who do you turn to
when
the city beats you back,
beats you down
when you thought you were the one
with all the control
in the palm of your hand?
when
you miss feeling
larger than life during
those small victories,
that may, in the end,
be nothing?

Where do you go
when
you see that the rain cloud just gets darker and darker
above your head
while watching the soundless lightening storm
above the night sky line just exhausts you?
when
the glamorous dirt under your sink,
the dirt under your fingernails,
is the only sign left
that you once dug for your dreams?

What are you supposed to think
when
over and over again
you feel like crawling under anything
anything at all,
as long as it’s under and deep and far,
away
from where you are now.
when
you’ve been playing a part for so long,
so when the smoke finally lifts from the crowded dive,
so when the city street noise takes a minute to breath,
so when the need to have it all
dies down for just one brief moment,
and you finally, finally, finally
take a look in the mirror
you can hardly remember
when was the last time
you
played
you?

I know,
because sometimes
I think.
I think,
I know that
You wanna be loved.
Loved. And.
You wanna be.
And that’s it.