Small

I need very little.  I need only a few things.

A hand to hold, a mouth to feed, and hair to run my fingers through.

It's a small list.

Someday, yeah, someday.

I'm so tired of small lists that I can't seem to accomplish.

If I need so little, why can't I ever find it?

I'm not looking properly, am I?

Sigh.

Tell me a story.

Tell me a story about trees and cobblestone roads and bookstores with secret rooms.  Tell me a story about a little girl with brown hair and a little boy with blonde.  Tell me a story about bread and fairies and a vegetable garden where dark secrets lurk.  Tell me a story about roosters and fields and flash floods.  Tell me a story about hopscotch and bruised knees and a house that is so old that it's probably haunted.

Tell me a story.

Say plot points, plot points, plot points.

Okokokokokokok.

Spun around in a circle three times, clapped my hands, and sat down to a cup of OJ.

That's how these things work, right?

I used to be damn fine at making my own path.

Fuck the expected way of doing things.

Fuck four years.

Fuck walking at graduation.

Fuck that hip surgery.

Fuck doing things the easy way.

Fuck small credit loads.

Fuck musicians.

Fuck half-assing things.

Fuck it.

I used to know how to make a direct path to what I wanted.  Just pick up and go.  But I got pulled off the track.

So here we go.

Spin around three times, clap your hands.

Spin around three times, clap your hands.

We're going to go about life they way we used to.

I'll race you.

I'll win.

I'll outrun you.

I outrun the stars.

P.S.
My song count will be larger than yours.  I'm racing now.