I long to weave my thinking into phrases, before the account of nostalgic moments ceases. I wish to pen every moment, each picture that I've beheld and I want to word all of the yearnings withheld.
what is this madness, this endless chase? to record on a thin sheet all that took place. Happenings and incidents I try to compile, is this meaningful or just futile?
For sometimes it feels they'll crawl out of me and without a glance back, run free. and I'd not have the strength to stand, on my wobbling legs and stretch my hand.
I don't know if this feeling's a little gray I know somethings that have to stay will not require me to hold tight yet losing them builds a fright