I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss? Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?
I like people too much or not at all.
I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost...but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me.
I have been holding a dialogue with myself and girding myself to stand fast without running.
Talking about my fears to others feeds it.
If only I knew what I wanted I could try to see about getting it.