The Grind

Monday through Friday
I wear these jeans for you,
Rugged it looks after days
Of dirt building up
Sunday comes and I
Wear the best for you,
Sitting in the pew,
Seeking religion’s
Deepest questions
You are a mystery,
The sting takes a hold of me

Barren is a siren
Screaming in me
Nylon pylon’s lined
Up, single filed outside
These roads I travel on,
Empty you require,
Poor your refine, poor
You are in my pores,
The grind wears me down
But I want your crown and
Credit for not quitting at it—
Mold me God, into what you
Can only do, fill this coffee only,
But don’t stop in filling me

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