I was once told that words mean little.
Action is what mattered.
Or maybe it's the thought that counts?
Fairly frequently I will get mad,
But very rarely am I disappointed,
The way I am now.
Much of my time is spent filing single
Socks without a pair back into my drawer.
But these little tragedies
Never realize their full potential.
Static cling charges their fair atoms
And I am clung to for dear life.
Your hypocrisy amuses me.
Nothing is more silly than a lonely sock
Wanting to be worn by a girl who lives
In bare feet.
But bare and calloused toes were better
And less cruel,
Than her favorite pair of socks,
To whom she had lost half the match.

If you, little sock, want peace
Want solace
Want brevity...
This lint fire will get you high,
Just like those words, actions,
And thoughts you keep from me.