White-Knuckled Driving
Ooh its rage, baby, that lights me up inside, makes me burn. Jaw set tight and fingers grip the wheel. White knuckles like back when I was starting to drive. Stare straight forward, don't you say a word. I can handle an awkward silence, can you?
When you're placed there with the decision, to do or not to do? You usually do. Or at least I. I, with my passion, my lust, my fire that seems unquenchable, untameable. I hope those are real words.
Creativity likes to dance around me. Through my head, sparking an idea then back out my fingertips before I have time to trap it into media. It teases and agitates me. Body, don't you disobey me, don't be temperamental."I don't feel like it today". Well too bad, I'm picking up the pencil so you better get started.
I'm feeling that restlessness again. That creeping sensation that starts in the back of my head and works its way down over my body. Something new to explore? A mouth to taste? A road to walk, or drive, in my case. I'm not allowed to walk by myself.
So now when you're holding on to wrist, no, my ankle. Dragging me with you, I want to fly, to keep walking somewhere new. This is not where I'm supposed to end up, I know that, so don't you dare glue me to my spot.
Don't you dare.
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