young paper souls

Crisply printed souls
Spending for the first time
Pieces of themselves.
Not sick yet of the sameness of it all.
Living in their cars because
Home is too stationary.
Thinking stationary too
Mundane,
And motion even less so.
Going nowhere for no reason.
Taking the longest road home,
because conversation should not be hindered
by home-bound-ness and destination.

They aren’t sick yet.
They aren’t aware yet.
They aren’t awake yet.
They don’t hurt yet.
They don’t write yet.
The pain and sorrow of life lived knowing the truth.
But the hope.
Always the hope.
Never for money.
I don’t need money.
Neither do you.