today i cut off some of my hair with a pink razor

and now i keep finding half-inch strands

all in my shirt
and on my wrists
and even once on this page

and ever since i've been
waiting
for that new freeing
feeling

the one you're supposed
to get
when you're listening to soft
music

and you're not sure what your
hair will look like
when it dries

and that sun ––

that sun is peeling through the
leaves just to meet your gaze

then blind you.

i've been waiting,
and waiting,
and waiting.

yet all i feel is this
silly complacence and a
slight mourning for all the
time i've wasted.

and through these former pages
i can see the indentions
of the pressure
my hands have pressed
into these former pages

and i wonder what it was
that caused me to apply
so much force

to a 5cent yellow mechanical
pencil

that can do no more than
breathe sentience into my
thoughts,

my drawling thoughts,

and remind me that i've been
wearing gym shorts and a
grey t-shirt with the logo of
a bar i've never even been
to before

for about three days now.

i guess

i'm expecting the wrong things
to fill me up.