We fit, and yet it worries me
Like a dog chewing on a bone:
What do you think of me?
Am I good enough?
Do I talk too much?
Do I smile too much?
Do I laugh too much?
Am I simply too much?
And I know my head should be filled with other stuff
Than cotton fluff
But no debating on my part will make my brain function properly.
It’s killing me not knowing,
Hoping without even the shadow of future knowledge.
My hands shake,
My stomach grumbles,
My body doesn’t know how to stay calm and serene
When you’re not sitting or walking beside me.
How the hell do I cure myself of this?