scared.

the sun is setting, it’s falling down, and i sit in my car. i smoke a half-used cigarette and stare at the ceiling, not the sky, for inspiration. i’m counting my good thoughts on just one hand, and i realize that i’m worn, a dusty old jacket with two many patches. and he’s talking to me, and i hold out my good intentions, a pocketful of cliches marked with bad memories. the bitter smell of alcohol bites at me, convicts me, and i put the keys in the ignition. i don’t know where to go, but anywhere is better than this. i feel rotten, overworked and thin and tired. and the black rings under my eyes match the black rubber of my tires and i know it’s time to leave. but all i can do is stare at my hands, but i can’t make them move. i can’t make anything move. i’ve seen this road and been in this place too many times before. i shake.