I know these are little words.
But they are trying to say something.
I wish I knew more than this.
Why is the door always locked up? I swear at one point it was wide open with a whole new exciting view of trees and bees and bustling little words that make big pictures of other words which mean so so much more than now.
Don’t expect too much. I wish this floor was a little softer. A little warmer. Somewhere else… through a train ride, prints on hot tarmac leading to a pin point of a distance which wasn’t always there… Somewhere else.
But when you get there what's next?
What is next.
Im tired. So tired of this way of things. I want a bag of other things with other names and other words that fill it up. Then start all over.
If you could start over what would you do differently?
Is it bad that I want so much. I just don’t know how.
What happened to all that confidence I used to wade through. It was like I could do anything… I just didn’t want anything.
Now I want everything and I don’t even have a trickle under my feet.
It all trickled out.
Too many things.
Too many little words.