hold it in your pocket

It doesn't matter what I think anymore, and that's probably what kills the most. I want to run & jump & live in my city, and there's a little understanding in why I can't. I don't really think I get it. I know I don't. I'm living in the past & I'm feeling what comes naturally, so who can fault me there? I wish it would've happened the way it was planned. It's like I'm stuck in the dreamstate & I'm having a party, but no one shows up & it keeps replaying over & over & over & over. I can't talk and I can barely move. I keep looking up with those eyes that only two people have ever been able to understand. I look at your face and you're there and you're waiting for everyone to show up, too. When they don't, you keep looking at me, accusingly, and a wave of guilt overcomes me and knocks me into the grass. I keep looking, and soon, my eyes are welling up, my mouth is opening but nothing's coming out. You looked so angry, but then it's like the curtains drew & you see what I see. You get it. You always end up getting it.