I spit up words and swallow them over again.
I'm starving for any concept, any notion of myself.
Is this how I operate? Is this how I communicate?

I make prints in the soil and them to match my feet.
I'm trying to prove my own existence over any and all else.
Is this where I tread? Are my steps that weighted?

I touch bodies and am touched back in turn.
I wish I understood the matter that I occupy.
Will I know myself in time? Could I love myself in time?

Of nothing, I am sure.