Used-To-Knows, Are-Nows, and Supposed-To-Bes

Why is everything so damn temporary, my pals?
I used to enjoy days that reeked of difference,
but now the more uncertainty, the more I feel,
the small throb in your stomach called reminiscing.

Why does the heart seek the heat of nature’s socket?
Hot air is not permanent in the desert of used-to-knows,
are-nows, and supposed-to-bes, my brothers,
and their only depictions are outlined but not filled.

This nutcracker’s dull with the imprints of various shells,
all my past possessions, obsessions, and non-follow-throughs,
tripping, falling, destroying for fun, at each solo obstacle,
so desperate for new chapters that only locked doors remain.

Just give me a chunk of mountain dead to relocation,
stream with an endless supply of trickles in perpetual paradise,
the end to the alls of all that’s been comfortable,
and I’ll show you just how great of an escape artist I can be.