of things to say. Don't have room
inside a page. The page runs
like a river. And flows into the oceans
called, a liver of a life so stalled.

I don't run out
of anger. Long-tailed like a
langur following me from tree
to tree. I can't seem to
catch a breeze.

I don't run out
of sorrow. I've some for
today, but more for tomorrow.