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Spending too much time on what I need to be and not enough time on who I should be. Spending my days in a daze because I don't have time to eat, sleep, think, dream. It's so easy to forget what it's like being trapped when you live off the cream instead of picking crumbs at the end of a week. Hard times come, but you'll never be out on the street or staring into disappointed eyes because you can't make the ends meet. You forget selling trinkets to buy enough food to survive when you tell me that I fail because I never really tried. Now I'm older and you're older and you're everything a person could want to be and I'm working an hourly wage, still saving for a bass guitar. I can't even justify it. But I can write. The world may never know it, but I can twirl words like you, and while yours rise to the stars, mine flutter and spark- yours in light, mine in dark. All the same, my pictures still get painted. © 2009, h e a t h . h o u s t o n |