Writing

I slip through the house

tiptoeing through the hallways that loom over my sensitive ears

I enter the kitchen

where a pitcher of lemonade is sitting on the counter.

Yes.

I'm in love with the way you walk,

The way you talk.

I'm in love with the way you sing 

If you texted me,

I'd light up.

Just because of the little ping.

This is just kind of random bits of information in unedited paragraphs.

Why do I care?

It never happened

that everything was beautiful and nothing hurt

but if it did it would have been

lying in the grass

the kind that surrounds you like the ocean

and flows like a river

The beginners of the beat,

Just learning the ropes,

Figuring out their instruments -

They come in, 

Wide-eyed,

And regard the older kids

With awe.

I love to be looked at this way

I write a lot of stuff

About my friends.

I write a lot of stuff 

About anything,

Everything,

Under the sun I could

Possibly dream up or

Imagine.

But you?

Somehow