l1vingdeadgurl

You ever get tired of holding on to something that is quite possibly slipping through your fingers? You realize, though, that you don't care because it wasn't what you wanted in the first place.

Still looking for a job, which is pretty frustrating in itself. The volunteer thing is going good, it fills the day.

I've been thinking about this poem lately


There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.

I really have nothing to say lately.