Throwing Things Away

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Sometimes I feel like there's a poem inside of me. It's ready, but I cannot write it.
I've been painting too. I want to express myself in many different ways. With words when I write. With my body when I dance. With my mind when I draw and paint. With my laughter when I make somebody else laugh. With my soul when I love. I don't want to give less.

I see the people I have been. I see this pale person now. I see and feel the changes. I need time to recover. Some of my reds are fading. They're blurry too, just like the blues. It seems like after so many disappointments, I don't know anymore if there's anything ahead of me worth any excitement.

What could that be? A new job? More money? A better apartment?
New friends? A book? What's it that is going to make my life less ordinary?

I have to make decisions soon. Can I write? Can I be who I really want to be?

Songs and perfume have the same effect on me. They make me feel -- intensely.

It's late. I have to get some sleep. I should go to work early in the morning. Have I ever told you what I do?
I am a daydreamer.

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