NoodleGirlsie's profile

I find I'm a well worn bag With frayed stitching And a broken zipper Coming apart at my seams Only held together by A thin disintegrating thread Carting around an awful lot Of old stuff (not to mention junk) Akin to a bin I find I'm just waiting for the day Where old faithful becomes plain sad... Hanging from someone's arm Who wishes they hadn't left the house with me

I wonder what you see In her... Maybe it’s that You don’t need a psych degree To work out what she’s thinking, How she’s feeling (Me on the other hand... Happy – silent Sad – laughter Angry – smiles Healthy self expression... Not my forte.) But you can be certain When I’m Stammering Stuttering Stumbling around The truth is bubbling, Seeking its escape Only to die on my lips, Coldly Violently. More to the point – What don’t you see In her? ...Me?

My mind runs circles. I wish I was out With my drunk juvenile friends, And their drunk, Juvenile friends. But I’m not. I’m home in bed Instead, Listening to waves Breaking on my beach -- The one that invites me out Down my stairs Covered in sand. But I stop And wait in bed Instead, Hoping for my phone, To ring, or vibrate… Or at least beep, so I'll know That someone, In somewheres-ville, Thinks of me... While I'm in bed Half dead, But I have no need To leave my mattress To attend to my cell p...

I find I’m just a well worn bag, With frayed stitching And a broken zipper – Opening up is a hit and miss. (Sometimes it opens, Sometimes it’s impossibly stuck.) I’m coming apart at my seams And all that holds me together Is a thin thread Which, incidentally, Disintegrates more With each passing moment. For such a worn out old bag though, I sure seem to cart around An awful lot of old 'stuff'. And not in nice neat compartments... No, it's more of a rubbish dump That collectors fossick through...

I find I'm Just a well worn bag, With frayed stitching And a broken zipper – Opening up is a hit and miss. (Sometimes it opens, Sometimes it’s impossibly stuck.) I’m coming apart at my seams And all that holds me together Is a thin thread Which, incidentally, Disintegrates more With each passing moment. For such a worn out old bag though, I sure seem to cart around An awful lot of old 'stuff'. And not in nice neat compartments... No, it's more of a rubbish dump That collectors fossick through...