Patience is a word
That I had never cared for
Until I met you

I cannot pour myself into you,
And expect to receive myself back
I cannot pour myself into you,
If you are not there anymore
I cannot pour myself into you,
And for the next 12 hours I won't
I cannot pour myself into you,
But I want to

I'll write you a letter
That you'll never see,
I hope to feel better,
Go back to being me

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Some days are good days
Some days are bad days
Some days I simply exist