A name was lost to me on my most secret and sweet bursts of passion. Despite the loss, gentleness finds me in exhaustion, promising what I feared never to have myself. Independence is a squirming, fickle thing. Clung to my outsides and wrought havoc over my mind. Whereas my chest and her beating companion waits all the more patient. Sipping the love I develop for myself, like sweet tea knowing that gentleness, and yet more patience. Amid the passion, she seeks a name. But knows now to wait patiently, for genuiness.
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(BASKET CASE)
Poetry"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple." -Jack Kerouac
