I hate when the blues hit. Usually happens in those times of thinking you're the only one without a key to the lock. Or those times you prematurely grieve what you think may never happen. Or those times envy whispers in your ear. Or those times you were marginalized. Or those times you realize you're not entirely sure where home is. Or those times you're tempted to crumble into immediate false comfort. In those times I find trouble.
And trouble’s a brewin’.
It passes, in time, with little notice or fanfare. You dig out, find the pocket of air.
Just had to say it out loud, 'cause I’m a little scared.
Just a little.