I could write a million poems,
but I don't.
I'm caught up, lost, taken from the world.
here is where my existence lays,
somewhere between pain, wonder, and reality.
we fight for what?
love? experience? knowledge? ourselves?
we fight for what?

I could write a million poems,
but I don't
why?
is the world too fast?
am I given too much at once maybe?
psh, a real shame- given too much.
given so much, its too much.
psh, a real shame.

I could write a million poems,
but I dont.
the truth is- who knows?
sitting in bed looking out your window
who knows? who knows.