Hard to catch in my hands.
Tangible in my thoughts.
Redundant and still extremely annoying.
Strapped through and through itself.
I imagine so much. Imagine through and through.
Still it isn't enough.
Does it ever feel like it though?
Needles in the hands of others.
Repressed fire, smoldering like an awaiting phoenix.
Just not as romantic.
Pleading doesn't do,
feeling won't do, but I must.
Still it must.
There are not enough mothers in the world
to dry these tears away, but I have to,
still I have to.
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