I sit.
I wait
…for something
And… nothing
Which is, everything.
“Duh, just fucking smile. What is so hard about that?” said the poor indian man who sleeps on the streets and begs for coinage.
The hardest thing I’ve ever done, is write a novel. And I haven’t even written one yet.
I like it! I love it. I don’t want to continue.
My lips are chapped.
Stupid poetry! Always bumming me out.