Suncrest Court

Lily; Part 1 (still)

My hometown, before Columbia, was Moberly. I'd drive 30 minutes from Columbia to Moberly, and I felt safe. Columbia was a city, and it was too dangerous. Moberly smelled like home. It was a sweet smell, better than the cloud of gasoline smell from Columbia. The gasoline that would later be used to blow up a Phillips 66. Moberly smells as if God had just finished his daily walk around it. Probably dropped his McDonald's in front of Walmart. But it still smelled beautiful. I missed home so much; at least one item I wore everyday was black, it was a funeral for the town of Moberly. I didn't live there anymore, but I wanted to. Everyday now I was too tired. Felt that moving out of bed was too much. The day was gunna be rough, and my brain couldn't bare it. My real friends were half an hour away, but that's too much without a car. Nobody in Columbia liked 80s music, like everyone in Moberly did. They called me an "oldie" for my taste in music. I listened to music that I described as "dead people" music. Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin, and many more. Musicians who kill themselves make me so disgusted. All the crap we have now on the radio, I'd love to trade many modern singers for dead ones. Kurt made me feel high. Amy made me feel sweet love.  Janis made me feel free. Columbia had me in a cage, and Janis had the key.