My insides do not keep any order.
Nor do I keep that as my passion.
Distracted ruins of my simultaneousness...
Stumble,
Then give up on the road.
Shiver all you want,
In a mind you are there and warm.

Maybe I should not.
Living can not equal pushing.
Not in the least strains.
Must I run and strain?
No, hearts do not want anything but be simple water drops on simple grounds.
Simple waters,
Flow, flow, and not burst.