Little brown me.
A conversation piece:
Build brick by brick. I learned form the pigs and decided sticks should only direct the orchestra inside of my sandcastles.
I have little brown hairs all over my little brown me that give me more proof. That I Was made to be felt.
Rub my back to remind me that you have it.
That if I get ahead of myself you’ll pull me back.
All the tears are forced for the feel of your force.
Telling me there is more to the days that the time is takes to get my voice back it’s been so off course.
Like a horse that gallops alone through the obstacles of its kind.
Trying to find
or get back to normal, as it’s been running for a long time.
A back massage.
I bet that is what we are all in for.
A big rub down to glaze over the fact that it’s all natural and made in a factory.
The fact that I can’t really get all this out until I find myself outside of the bullshit.