I
Feel like a fool for you.
these words that trip
and trip...
and make no sense.
(repeat)
(repeat)
who and whom and when and where?
Oh the subject
always must agree.
clarify.
my.
the words I can never say.
change the subject and turn and red.
circle the line, and then
terminate.
(repeat)
(repeat)
Mark up.
delete.
(repeat)
II
My paragraph makes no sense,
my line is fragmented.
My source is questioned,
and alone with crumbled pride.
Why ask?
Why wonder?
Why bother?
I am rent.
I am torn.
My meaning is lost, and confused.
Silent I'll stay
but hope.
The words will come one day.
The words will have meaning
and I will keep at work
but I will no longer
be a fool for you.
clarity
will come.
Why should I care
if you write or if you call?
if you even know I breath
at all?
We invest in people,
our hearts, and minds,
like books taking space,
the words we write,
the speech we make.
until we become silenced by regret.
why emote?
why and why, oh why...
Let it Pass.
the hurt and the waste.
Let it not feel
or hurt or wear a groove
or take up root,
or make a song
nor let the heart to break.
Be a book I read
and then moved on,
a happy memory
or strange dream.
A chapter of life
we read and leave
but learn
and recall.
You were never real,
and
I was nothing at all.
because I don't exist
and not a person to you,
any you.
So.
Why should I care
if you write or if you call?
if you even know I breath
here.
or there, at all?
