Notebook 047

A thousand blades of grass all trapped and swaying to the death. The same old spot surrounds them never stopping to take a breath. A million little hands all scratching at your back, fingers curl as cloud storms swirl and she says; “I’m sorry that I don’t feel bad. I’m sorry that I don’t say thanks.”
A tiny little sunshine, heating up the blessed and he says; “I’m sorry that I don’t feel.”
A thousand little street cars and thousand little streets. You indicate the way you go, and move still by your feet. People you don’t care for, and people you don’t know.