Sam Shute

This isn’t a land of milk and honey.
It’s a mosh pit filled with screams
so defiant they could break a thousand mirrors.
But I’m at complete ease here,
you could blame it on the liquor.
My dizzy, dizzy mind sinks
into the drums that pound deafeningly,
replacing my heartbeat,
igniting vibrations like the start of a hurricane.
There isn’t a second of silence to grasp,
as the sweet sound of lyrics leave lips
in a mass of bodies.
I’m oblivious to the abundance of sweat
coating their skin
or the fatigue that consumes them.
I come down from my high
and the lights dim low,
a quiet ringing in my ears.
This is home to me.