houses with better views: poetry

for all sane purposes, in the driveway

I want to leave.

For days, it seems I've had this pestering voice telling me I can't achieve my end goal.
That I just sold whatever piece of dignity I had left and I'll become a little, meaningless member of society.
It's this great anxiety, stepping on untouched soil. Making the first footprints for others to follow.
And pretending it's not there is just like faking sobriety.

Trying to walk in a straight line.
Trying to stay on my feet.
Feeling drowsy, yet heading on.

But I wouldn't really know of it. Since I've never had to—fake sobriety.
I've never had to voice my concerns quietly about the rest of my life like I would in teenage diaries littered with pages of a disillusioned girl.

My eyes are turning rouge and I go through every living moment thinking of things that will keep me tied to this place.
Like the face of the little girl I see every weekend and her giddy, toothless smile when I pick her up in my arms.
The trace I leave behind in other young minds
By the Grace the universe has given me.
The way people around here finally figured out how to embrace their inner selves and be unapologetic.

Yet, I cannot be unapologetically me.
It's almost genetic the way I self sabotage.
You know, the way I make my stomach churn and cramp for the aesthetic. Or how people would say, "that's so Lana Del Rey"
because I just so happen to have issues.

I sometimes feel I can't let my life be sweet out of fear of being diabetic.

I just can't find what else there is out there that would make me prosper toward a meaningful footprint.
Not here, anyway.
So I want to leave.
And indulge in some thaumatin.

I'll find the power in
Crowded houses I just could happen to
Look outside of.