The Old Blog in the Desert

Here’s a hard pill that sticks in the throat going down.
I don’t belong anywhere.
Not in the town that raised me.
Not in the jobs that used me up.
Not in the place where I dump my keys at night.
There is no tribe, no pack, nor a drunken chorus singing me home.
Everyone else seems to fit like they got stamped out of the right mold.
But when you look—past the laughs, past the easy smiles—you see the wires, the cracks, the cheap glue holding them together.
They’re all faking it, and the worst part?
They don’t even know it.
That’s why I don’t belong.
Because I see the game for what it is.
Lonely?
Sure.
But sadness is for people still hoping for a cure.