Cramped in the back of a Chrysler Pacifica.
Plastic interior to my right elbow,
Guitar case to my left. 
What remains of this life I’ve lived,
all fits inside a mini-van.
Life’s not about what you have,
Until it is. 

This waiting game,
I feel it as I sweat into my pillows. 
I feel it as I cry alone,
Struggling to forgive myself of my shame.
Money never grows fast enough. 
People hope the best for you when you’re low, 
But they keep a distance. 
You are always on your own. 
No beautiful smile owes you a next time.

If you’re not in their brain,
You never truly know what they think. 

I know because it put me here. 

As far as people go, 
I expect to come second, always. 
Second to their hurt and pain, 
Not good enough to work for. 
I guess I bought in at a young age, 
Long before I slept in a van
outside my employer.

Hope feels a lot like a knife.