You say you want us to write.
Write about our feelings, locked inside,
But nothing deep.
But feeling is deep
Unless you're shallow.
Problems ruin people's lives,
Judgment is just discrimination against
People different than you.
There is not enough paper
Nor time enough
To write all I want to say about the world.
I had hot chocolate for breakfast.
You say write about yourself.
Here are the things everyone knows about me:
I'm a helpless romantic,
Wishing on a shooting star.
I eat ice cream in the winter,
And my dreams are bigger than the moon.
I try my luck in sticky situations and
I smile all the time
And love to laugh at things
But not at people.
What people don't know about me:
Too much.
Sometimes I wonder,
If I disappear,
Would anyone notice or care?
I'm not scarred
Like those homeless,
Like those abused,
Like those starved.
I'm not broken,
I'm not beaten,
I'm not dead.
But sometimes I feel that way.
There are too many people
Walking down this same rainy street.
They feel so alone while others walk right by.
It feels so lonely to walk down a
Rainy street in a crowed.
So many people dream,
Waiting and wanting to be noticed.
Some give up on their dreams,
Their resolutions falling victim to
Substance,
Drugs.
Some stronger than they
Fulfill their childhood pastimes.
Will I ever be enough?
That question plagues those that
Walk this world.
Is "enough" a set point
Or always just above our heads--
Out of reach?
Sometimes I wonder if I'm a horrible person.
Yes, I think so.
I'm glad you disagree.
There are too many people like me.
Oikofugic definition: The irrepressible desire to wander.