it scares me to speak my mind. it might sound self-absorbed. i don't say half of what i think.. i wonder what i'm thinkin' for. i'm smelling dead flowers. and listening to the walls again. i'm drinking from a leaky faucet. and writing this with a dried up pen. wish i still had my imaginary friend. and who needs to listen well.... what do i have to sell. everyone's just waitin for their own turn. kind of like show and tell. someone to listen. someone to laugh. someone to cry at the right times. and i would call him up. but i don't remember his name.