If Life Was a Bus and We Were All Screen Writers

We all had expectations that crumbled as the days, passed.

Was to easier to fall into the small tragedies.

Whiskey and coke with a bartender. 

She tells you her life story through Would you rather questions. 

We are the best creative minds I know.

Bald heads, ordering sandwiches and missing the bus. 

We are the drafters of fiction. 

Experts of justifying our current action, with voices that shake from Vietnam to California. 

Minimal eye contact in preferred. The past is our masterpiece. Holding it in could be deadly.

So we sleep with our mouths open and eat quickly.

Still it tears at the minds paper, until the day of the great unfolding. 

When hands will be filled with sandwiches. We will all have caught the bus. 

Heads will open into tissue snowflakes. The least symmetrical  will win the contest. 

"Trapped in the back seat" will be the place to live the good life. Whether the AirCon works or not. 

Misery will be the first word we lose. 

And the road, with its minimal repairs, will knock heads against ceilings and memories from heads. 

And webs we created and slashed, will begin to regrow.