Worried Bout the Wrong Things

I see through it and around it.

Miami heat is nothing to play with.

Honestly I’m astounded, and annoyed to be surrounded.

I’m out here melllllting.

On beds of doubtfully baked air.

Trust has us but us seldom means much.

Imagine if giving up was an option.

Ha! Never!

I mash the gas.

No RPM can keep up with my spins.

I give. I give. And I give.

Then I devour the leftovers.

Not full but sustained I continue to creep forward in the dark.

Humidity halts progress and the phone rings.

If you don’t listen you’ll never hear.

Here my dear, it’s all right here!

Once again I’m cemented in puddles of nothingness like Alex Mack.

My secret world remains inconclusive.

But I’m a traveling woman and the east is calling.

Get off my line! The line must be kept clear.

Can you hear me now?

Why waste time worried about the wrong things?

Hello?

In the end, it’s worth it because I’ve got the beach.