Becoming
We worry about these wretched hours
As they slip through our hands and dance at our feet
A night’s long lament
The sweet smell of the rain’s residue wafts in the window
A nice perfume for the sad and lonely
Hold the hand of an uncertain future as you question a checkered past because the sins are brought to the present to be dealt with
Leave the unresolved to be answered by the little person who lives in your head
Doubt
Keep talking until words become sounds
Those sounds become mute and grow into slience
Til that silence becomes deafening, so loud that your ear drums pop from the pressure
The pressure to become yourself
