I sit here with nothing.
Just my own two hands
and a trial belief of who
I can be.
I think of the past, to just stare
so blankly,
at the present,
and towards the future
tense.
It makes me gather hope.
Hope for you, and hope for me.
Hope for waking, in the morning,
to work hard. Towards whom I want
to be. Cast in a giant basket, sown
from velvet and forgiveness.
Also, stop the exacerbation of what yesterday felt like.
Even if it wasn't so. Cause my vocal lack wasn't my
point.
I think of space.
I think of exaggeration,
and absolution.
It is what we make of it,
where we are nothing and
everything, all towards.
All at the same time.
It's not fair of me to not
let you know
how I am feeling,
as just if... It is used, or abused.
Or of my boundaries, for I don't
want the existence of them to sour
anything, for anyone that I love.
And I love it all.
Not as much as you,
my friend.
