Time, what is time? What is time well spent, and how much of my time am I spending right, I can't believe it's a been a year.. a year a year a year, what is a year once upon a time I was five and a year was a century and now another year has been swallowed up where I convince myself Im not a lone, but I really am and it's scary to think who I really am and what I have I done with me i think my body took over and pushed buttons and told me how to act, but mostly how to responded to the receding days those days that elapse over and over and next week will be different, but it's not and i grow tired and weary and i just want to lie down in the mud and learn how to actually breathe while staring into the sun and disappear like translucence and fade away but not really I'd like to re appear as simple flower, growing along side a creek wouldn't that be lovely to exist to plainly and I believe truth is discovered within the simplest form of beauty and maybe that's why I'll never get it, and my life is next to nothing with the blankness and the recurring emotions and the attempt for a goal that's useless and I'll always be chasing something that being strung ahead of me, eagerly reaching, and never succeeding, and how has a year passed and where does the time go and I love and love and love, at least I think I do, yet what do i do but dream and dream and imagine I'm in the sun, but not a lone this time, with a gracious hand to hold beside me, a rock of strength. Get caught up in the dregs of things and that's what I do I may not take drugs, but I drown myself in isolation and fear of sharing and I'm so selfish how can I share with this iron clad chain suffocating every inch of me and no one loves gold plaited iron - I hope they scrape away my exterior and I'll live alone rather than as a paper doll I hope they cut my in half with scissors and don't waste their time on someone like me because what have I done that's meaningful? I look for it in small places and big places and someone I think I've been here before and gotten nowhere how do I spend my time can't I be wise? Who's the judge can you judge and put me in my place I'm lost. I am so lonesome this is why flowers and trees have roots, and even the grass so green and simple and lush and sometimes dry they are grounded and always face the sun - yes the answer lies in what we trample over and on the other side of the bridges we burned and I want I want I want to I want to take your hand and cross a bridge, and together we won't step on the buttercups and dandelions.
