I am a work in progress.
My sentences don’t form in my head, just yet.
Instead, they form in mid-air while I’m trying too
Hard to find the right words to say, while time’s
Running up and I can’t quite articulate the way life makes me feel.
I am a work in progress.
I haven’t learned the art of forgetfulness, just yet.
My arms and legs are covered in letters and digits,
Full of phone numbers and names and
obscure places that
I’m dead worried that I will forget.
I am a work in progress.
I am not entirely complete, just yet.
I am trying to find myself in places and
people and
Song lyrics, and I am slowly beginning
to realize that
Some works of art never really reach
a defined end.