retainers, coffee stains, the same pair of jeans.

so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so,

so you think you can tell heaven from hell?

there's nothing to say about the situations i dig myself into, because sometimes we bury ourselves and try to blame the shovel rather than the hand behind it. but my mouth opens waiting for the words that my throat chokes on. i've traded all of my potential tomorrows for my temporary right nows. when right now becomes then, and as the potential fades, i shame the shovel and overlook the hand.

blue skies from pain?

i could sit here and let my fingers tell you the ways i've allowed my shortcomings to have short-came and short-went, how sucess should be what expands your possibilities but for me has felt as though it's only limited them. i could unscrew this top of mine, let my contents come crawling out. you could shine your flashlights on my dark spots, and i could show my shovel and hide my hands. i could, i really could, and i've always done it before. exchanging the truth for any blameless opportunity.

a smile from a veil? do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?

sometimes it's just a wrong glance. seeing the surface of a great now that's much closer than a distant corner of an even greater could-be. a pin-prick of an impulse, i stop trying and i start digging. but these splinters in my fingers and the dirt under my nails is telling you who did the work, no matter what situation put them up to it.

And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

i get scared when i start to figure that my own greatest version isn't worth living amidst all the bests. and if i'm letting these fears eat my can be's, could be's, or any of my possibily's apart, then i deserve this shovel and this crooked hand.

What have you found? The same old fears. Wish you were here.