If we don’t work to make our dreams come true, I’m interested in our focus.
One day all is pleasing, tired of dodging floors splattering eggs up to the face.
I want to write but instead we play mind reader blaming each other when we refuse to say something is wrong.
Eventually, we come upon a new shore, stay or swim away very unsure if it’s us or just the moon.
Not sure if it’s the moon, wasting moments, a program I finally notice, hmm.
Have you ever felt inadequate for someone’s heart, tension thicker than blood?
Clogging opportunities instead of coming together, writing in cursive on the I should leave side of her journal.
We’re still immature, if we can’t get over our eyes filled with pride.
Communication fails kill the best intentions, pedestals with trap doors.