I do not why I cannot write poetry any more. I do not know why everytime unknowingly I have to look for someone else's approval of my choice. I never needed one before and i dont need one now.
I have forgotten how it feels to touch leaves, how it feels like, all I know is the rattle of the key board, the competition and the fast track life.
The blankness of not doing something worthwhile, something to bring on a smile. What do people think, what are they really? What do they want, just squeezing out oppurtunites from one another or is it just more than that? Is it good to have money or is it worthwhile to think of how life would be if you had a bagfull hidden in the backyard?
Is it enough going to Dallas or just sit in front of the lake and trying to find ourselves? Who wants what, what do i want? Is happiness not in the water splashing, is it in the diamonds, is it in the fancy restaurant or in finding out your true friend.
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"I wondered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils" Wordsworth
