marooned (re'mastered)

the promise of mental forays into territories ignored;
I'm excited I took this call;
lets question the x+y’s of our tired lives;
let’s mock the quo like it doesn’t affect our strife
let’s pretend like we’re invictus and reality won’t evict us
from our high horses, while we sing along to bands that don’t even exist yet,
We'll make music of our own tapping our feet to the beat, swearing that’s what music ought to be.
We’ll pant to that chant that’s made more rounds around the sun than songs have been sung
and convince ourselves that our connection is better than others, because ours is a land unchartered.
We’ll lie to ourselves that our ideas are grand,
scheming our next thought on what’s fickle because it’s all fickle; what’s under the sun;
they flicker, bloom and die, we all die
but for now, we’ll stay locked up in your room    only coming up for air to stare at your walls of maroon                                                                    we’ll leave the world on your doorstep,        fighting to invade our space with reality’s wet blanket, but it’ll take only our sunsets                    to expressly relieve us from these four walls of our non-confinement.

Marooned

It’s the promise of mental forays into territories ignored;
that has me feeling excited that I took this call;
lets question the answers to the x+y’s of our tired lives;
let’s mock the quo like it doesn’t affect our strife
let’s pretend like we’re invictus and reality won’t evict us
from our high horses, while we sing along to bands that don’t even exist yet,
and make music of our own tapping our feet to the beat
and swearing that’s what music ought to be.
We’ll pant to that chant that’s made more rounds around the sun
than songs have been sung
and convince ourselves that we heard it in a way not understood by others
because ours is a land unchartered.
We’ll lie to ourselves that our ideas are grand,
scheming our next revolutionary thought on what’s fickle because it’s all fickle; what’s under the sun;
they flicker, bloom and die, we all die
so while we can, we’ll stay locked up in your room
where your maroon walls are all we see when we bother to come up for air,
we’ll leave the world out there
on your doorstep,
fighting to invade our space with the rudeness of reality’s wet blanket,
but it’ll take only our sunsets
to expressly relieve us from these four walls of our non-confinement.

Jerrod Carmichael

It is a high brow party on the roof of some LA building.
Edwin comes up to me and tries to dance with me. He's a terrible dancer.
I steal away and find a metal bench on which I recline.
With my new eye level I have a clear view of a chair meters away across the pool.
Jerrod Carmichael comes to sit in the chair and his eyes immediately find mine.
I don't break eye contact, not even when he gets up and navigates his way around the pool, through the sea of gyrating bodies and gets to me.
I sit up, still maintaining eye contact. He bends over and kisses me. I kiss him back.
Just as suddenly, he breaks away and sits next to me, his hand flying to his head in frustration? Regret? Confusion?
"What am I doing?" he asks himself.
I open my mouth to speak but I am stopped by the feeling of an insect crawling on my neck. I slap my neck to kill it and I wake up to the sound of early birds.