12 String Dreams Journal
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2001-09-23 10:36:38 (UTC)

Twenty Three Dollars

Twenty three dollars and some change. An apartment that
will have rent come due in a few weeks. A suitcase half
full of belongings and a mind full of fear. It's not much
to live on but enough to survive.

Curtains pulled block most the sunlight that made it's way
through the grey clouds, the lamp burns lonely in the
corner. The television sits babbling aimlessly against the

I could walk. I could run. I could hide. I could sit here
between these walls wishing I was on the outside looking in.

The strength I had has faded and the drive I had has driven
on without me. Left behind, forced to chase and follow.
Forced to blindly leap where I would rather just lie down.

"Everything will work out".

How many times has that been said. How many lips have
spoken those words. How long can you believe in such a
vague remark.

"Everything can be worked out", is more like it.

Everything will work out but how it will work out is
another story.

I've been here before. I don't know why it's so much harder
this time. Maybe because the other times I was here I was
here alone. I was the only one that my choices affected and
the only one my mistake would hurt. I was the sole owner of
all my actions. Now I'm one of two. Half of every choice I
make, I make for someone else. Half of every mistake will
be paid for by another. Half of every tear that falls down
my face is felt by another and half of every laugh is

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