Thoughts.
Scurrying all around in my head.
Where to go?
What to do?
How and When?
I keep thinking there's something I forgot.
But when I look for it real bad I see it's not.
Perhaps one day I'll understand the meaning of my life.
But in between all I can do is lay down and lie.
My parents say everyone used to be a poet.
I want to believe they're just jealous and lie.
But I do know to that they have no motive.
After all, the wrong one here is I.