(This isn't directed at anyone in particular; just some things my inner brat has been wanting to pout about lately).
I’m so tired of giving answers;
Why can’t you just read my mind?
Or watch these last five years in pictures
Rolling there behind my eyes?
Maybe you could read a stanza
Or two to learn how I got by,
Instead of asking all these questions
That take up so much precious time.
Maybe you don’t like that picture,
Or this new corner that I’ve turned.
And you’ve probably decided
That I’m more trouble than I’m worth.
Maybe you forget I’m right here;
Forget that I am close at hand.
You’re so easily distracted.
Whatever; I don’t understand.
I'd tell them, you know, if they wanted to know. I'd tell them all sorts of things.
A good friend once told me to keep writing. I agree with him in regard to you. You're an inspiration writing-wise and otherwise.
ReplyDeleteThank you; that means a lot.
ReplyDeleteSometimes I feel like just another stereotype.