Queen Anne's Lace
I have no way of expressing my thoughts properly. I cannot, and will not, do them the justice they’ve earned in their achingly drawn-out eruptions.
In simpler terms, I have trouble wording things to my satisfaction. But, I’m attempting.
I am afraid of plenty.
New people scare me. So do my mother’s words. Not everyone’s, but hers strike me oddly. Ending up like her scares me at equal value.
Sometimes I feel like my life is made of half sharpened pencils and cracked windows; not completely useless, but still without full potential. Workable, but unable to properly do the job.
But recently, I haven’t felt so inferior. I haven’t felt like a preoccupied hazard. I take that back. I’m preoccupied. Perhaps more than I’ve ever been. But not with the things that are plaguing me or those drowning nearest.
Rather, with one thing that’s comparable to warming your hands up after being outside for an hour in December. Or the feeling of drinking a glass of water after smoking four cigarettes in a row.
This time around it’s more correct, right on target, so direct. Ah, you’re gonna make me lonesome if ya go.
