More still must come out

And so I sit and wait. For the day when my fingers move across a piano instinctively creating music. So I can sing with all the talented blue birds that so cunningly wake the traveling campers laid so heavily on the grass in the middle of no where. I wish that were me having no agenda, seen through the thick glass on a moving train. Fleeing to Washington or walking down the street to the house where all of my imaginary friends meet. We'll sit and drink tea from mason jars. I'll dance down the aisle serenaded by the beats of poppy treat. Save me if you can, catch me now that i'm falling. It happens so slowly I am incapable of delivering the blow. It doesn't make sense to me now the things I want to do. I dreamt my mother ran through the house killing people and I hid under a bed for years in a room that use to be an office. I didn't want her to kill me and I didn't understand why she wanted to. It's painful stuffing your face with instant gratification, which in the end is exactly that. An instant that lasts no longer than the meat thrown to the dogs. My mind is full of worry and I have to try and sleep now.