I just wanna let my feelings out. But I hear that’s not the wave. No one cares how you feel. Not even the ones you’re caring for. How drab? How melodramatic of me. You have to separate the impulse from the thoughtful. The thoughtful from the overthinking. The overthinking from the obsession. I hope none of this ever makes sense. I hope you worries are light and fluffy, like pancake derivatives before the maple shakedown. I just wanna be loved. Where’s the fun in that? Not an encapsulated caricature of presupposed cliches but a bubble of possibility retro fitted with the perfect balance of yes and no, right and wrong, honesty and truth, this and that. They tell me I’m a dreamer. I don’t put space between my paragraphs. They may be right. I use commas to separate angst-never pause. I’m the anomaly no one explores. I’m just the right amount of not good enough mixed with weigh too much and it gets heavy trying to be ok. To be hopeful. Maybe one day I’ll find the right relapse looking to get sober off my brand of moonshine. Late night confessions poured over a spiced misconceptions, no ice. I stopped telling myself I would forever be alone because lies don’t care who tell them. Some dies though I wonder. If I can’t let it be without asking too much, saying too much, wanting more than what’s given, then how can these feelings ever get caught? I’m rambling. 3 am and I hear the silence ringing off another curious night. Wondering what’s out there. Waiting for the wave to crash around the lone dingy approaching off the shore. Through the fog. Like a whisper I should hear loud and clear.
In the distance.