why am i not familiar with the things i love?
i want to become them
but they are estranged to me
like seagulls in a desert
i can’t seem to place the canvas
i can’t pick up the pen
i can’t strum the strings
or hit the keys
i can’t remember the lyrics
i forget to water them
i forget to play with them
i can’t find the time to get out
i don’t have the right shoes for that

i’m starting to care less and less for those
excuses
when all i really want
is to climb that daisy mountain.