So I'm standing here wondering what i can do, to give it someplace to go.
And my thoughts don't belong on the floor,
But they lie here in front of me where I can see them, but I would rather they walk out the door.
A voice belongs in the air,
where it can float and drift and be heard,
Yet how can I talk when the words say wouldn't be heard with care?
And these hand just don't know where to go,
so they pull at my hair and hit my pillows, because my fingers plus yours are all I know.
-B
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