Carried Home

Everything hits me a little too hard,
and always a few minutes after.
I don't know why I feel so bad,
and why laughs turn to senseless chatter.
I'm not the captain, or the crew.
I'm the boat that is carrying them home.

What, is the news bad or good?
Oh heart, oh mind, tell me what is right.
I don't know why they never could,
and I can't ask myself for this insight.
I'm not even the vessel anymore,
i'm simply the soul, navigating slightly off course.

I need to change my ways,
and I need to get a grip.
I need to stop living in such a haze,
and stop making all these trips.
Maybe i'm the map,
showing you all I know,
you seeing all that I am.

Maybe i'm too far in now,
maybe I cannot debate.
Maybe I am just too late,
and now this wait is a forever kind of weight.
I am nothing at all,
but some written words in a book,
a priest you can call,
that will recite to you what the "big guy" took.

Reviews

[wordman]

sounds like your going through some trials