i often wonder
that i often not
notice the way
one's hands glide
as they touch
things they could not

how they grasp
at things they deem
abhorrent and obnoxious
yet the hunger in clenched
veins is rather obvious
than not

why feed eager pain
with self-loathing
what's there's to gain?
away with mourning.

so i often wonder
that i often not
notice the way
i held my hands
unwilling to let go
when in fact
i could always
could not.

wandering soul, be found
wandering soul, be content
wandering soul, have you had enough?
of questions that remain unanswered
or worse, unsaid?

wandering soul, are you alright?
wandering soul, are you tired?
wandering soul, take a rest
you've travelled the long road
you've done your best.

wandering soul, you are here.
wandering soul, you are found.
wandering soul, let go
your feet was always on the ground.

Trudging the road
with heavy feelings,
like I am a pocketful
of tarnished golden shillings.

Dragging feet
through soaking
pavement; walking,
lured by the lark's
shrilly singing.

Twenty-one years
of overexaggerated living,
I was promised of a life
halfway fulfilled,
only to find at almost twenty-two,
to believe in people's wholehearted joking.

Spending the majority of
my life then, just daydreaming
of how things could be
if only I had stopped believing.

Yet here I am,
a pocketful of useless learning,
but I don't know how long this would last
until I stretch my fabric; thinning,
only to shred it apart; bit by bit, tearing.