'Oh, Is This A Walkout?' a Poem

I hear myself in every song you play,
as if they were written about scenes played out
by infrequent and too-eager friends;
and not some aristocratic ponce
named Beavis who knows little. But what
does that say of me, you seem to ask.
                                                              Nothing.
I answered.

And then I tell myself this is what I need,
like a headline scoop spiralling into sight,
this is the shit that inspires me to write,
but leaves me blinded. With nowhere to go
like you. At least that’s the way I read things;
oh shit, is this a walkout?
I’ll show myself the door, for a few months
with little thought of what I’ve kept out,
or what I’ve left in.

Those lines in red, they are rooted
in something tangible,
although out of reach.
But still tangible.
To hand, but in no ones grip.