You fool,
What a fool.
As well write a song,
Stupid words of young.

With what's been done,
We won't return.

Can't hide resentment,
Can't fake contentment,
The point is broke,
We can't return.

To leave open drawers,
To feast on the rotting,
What more joy can we find,
How else to reconcile?

An unwavering stance,
It holds a trembling lip,
Bid so long to our sandcastle,
Soon it will as it was.

You fool,
What a fool.

Ahh. It's cool down here. Gazing ahead, there's really not much to look at. But it's so serene down here. The wind dances off my forehead, whips my fringe into a mess. But there's no one here to see. Smile.

All in the lonesome. Having my back propped against a hard surface somehow assures me of a support system, somewhere. Millions of thoughts hushed in submission. It's so quiet down here.

There's something about splaying on the floor. Maybe because I used to do it as a child, it serves the way a keepsake does.

I should really get up now.

If it were up to me,
I’d fly away with the wind.
I’d walk the paths that you never could,
I’d find the streams to carry me,
I’d dance with the boys and sway to my tune.

If it were me,
I’d wear a different dress.
I’d paint my face and plaster a grin
And I’d never figure you out.

And because it’s me,
I have a different dress.
I dance with the elements,
I play with the bears.

And because it’s me,
I am no different.
I learn not.
I hear not.
I do not.
But wait.