The Last Day of July

Dale's Pale Ale
And the manifold perspective
Of wandering hearts all so misguided.
These days
To wrap my head around any thing
Is impossible.
It's all feel, want, need, desire,
Scared, scarred, broken, working,
Living, loving, well maybe,
And every moment is
Just a moment,
And you will attach what you want to it.
I'm starting to think
That we are all lost children.
Our damage is in degrees, but
From the things we first felt.

There's probably some design
That dictates this awkward mess.
Then again, we could all just run the chaos.
I choose to believe,
Out of simple, primitive fashion,
That what I want is my aim.
And so I want things, and people,
And people are hard things to want...
In the end I am something imperfect
And a little misguided.
I'm okay with those variables.
Let's me know I'm playing fair.