Past

Grabing at anything, staying in the same place. Its all for a reason. Your soul, show that it didn't weaken your soul, that its not draining, you're back on track for a new beggining, a new path. Your hands reached out with control. A facade all well-known. I still see myself escaping, a pen in hand I stole, writing initials, picking flowers wondering who was left to gift. Walking like I could run like I could lie my way through life without thinking twice, using makeshift. A margaret or, no a daisy with a tear of the skies, ripped it apart, creating its demise. What will make me whole? Like the writing on the school's surface, it doesnt matter how hard you try, the hazy memory of your role will deminish. In the steps, on the rims, in the gaps, in the cracks, in the severed limbs of that flower I barely knew. Consistency is how I grew. Or maybe it counts as another one of my distractions set by myself, my intuition.