Saturday Morning, 3 AM

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I can hear the soft breathing of the girl that I love,
As she lies here beside me asleep with the night,
Her hair like a mist as it floats on my pillow,
reflecting the glow of a winter moonlight.

But she knows and I know that I’ll never be,
as good as the ones who came before me

So I’ll play my guitar and I’ll gently weep,
Drowning in my man made sea.

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I didn’t know what to write about for the blog, but I happened to find an assignment I wrote for psychology class a few months ago. Enjoy. Thinking about it over and over again was probably the worst part of it. Not saying that the actual experience wasn’t a horrible terrifying experience, but the anticipation

Him

I hate it, His face, His voice, I hate that I still recognized him, I hate that I let you use me, Most of all I hate that I couldn’t say what I’ve been meaning to say after all these years, I’m still the small girl I once was around you  

I think there is a certain amount of preciousness in the little things. Flowers growing through the sidewalk, seeing the start of a tree in a tiny flower pot. The innocent beginning of a relationship. Or even seemingly meaningless questions, like, ” Hey, did you happen to eat today?” Or, ” How did you sleep