Nineteenth Year

i.
Alone, most of the time, I discover jazz
Find truth within, but not peace.

ii.
Aimlessly wandering country roads past majestic old growth
Adorned in Spanish moss, rising above
Impenetrable swamps,
An abandoned shack on cinder-block stilts
in the middle of nothingness

iii.
Many nights in pulsating clubs.
I go home empty.

iv.
Someday I’ll learn the way back
To the place I won’t need
To run from anymore.