The Hardest Thing For Me

So much white noise can make you feel
Sick or stuck inside a tractor tire that
Won't stop rolling, even when it
Reaches the bottom of the hill.

But nothing is worse because it pulses
And strains and stretches the night
So every small crack is easy to see.
That's why the holy ghost is afraid of the deaf.

It feels so unnatural, like we're plugging in
Valium or shooting up summer so
A machine can bring us down to rest
Inside a place that no one's ever won.

That was my excuse for always wanting
To leave and never stop, chasing a
Claim that was like a golden wristwatch
To a woman wearing long sleeves.

But fortunately for me, you tore apart
The kiln, and together, with burning hands
We pressed down hard on each other, ready
To make new shapes, each and every day.