"This is how I feel." Says songs,
sad songs. It's inevitable or so
I imagined. Things said to many
folks, whispers and distributions.
An ache. With and without.
Blunders. So many, so abounding
that questioning ensues. Nothing
present, though. Not that I have done.
So what of this evening? An
Owl, an answer, a friend
or two. Who decides what
really happened and how do
we ever really know? What
makes this mind of mine think
of wander into cave corners?
I'm uneasy. I'm ill prepared.
I'm waiting for mistakes and
that call to tell me you screwed up
and you're sorry. I'm sewing.
It's not supposed to be hard.
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