Sycamore

I think there's a sycamore growing in me

I sit in bed and think sometimes, of all that I could be,
Of flights, and friends, and sentences, of universities.

There's so much I could've seen,
People I could've been.

Instead I stay and contemplate,
And in my hesitance I do wait,

For words or signs or even smoke,
to tell me I am not alone.

But so far all that I have got
is missed connections, of those a lot.

So why should I believe in love?
Or a power up above.

When I get daily this damn show,
Of just how little I fucking know.

About how people live and work,
And how not to be a jerk.

Please someone rescue me,
From this mindless constancy.

There's rules that I don't quite understand,
"Just do this to catch a man!"

But what of us lonely few,
That no matter what we do,

Just can't get one to stay,
Eventually they run away.

Is there something wrong with me?
Below the surface, where I can't see?

More than love and more than Lust,
I want a friend I fully trust.