QUARTKNEE's Journal

 Cluster fucked, with only time on my hands,

The time, it dwindles.

So scared, yet secure,Things to change set in obscure.

 The possibilities I once had, now forgotten,

The hopes seem distant and erased.

Why has all this seemed to come around?

Just note, I am not angry. 

I am no longer with the sleeping public,

For my thoughts have much drug on since then.       

I cannot place my feelings,Only insecurities show through.

 So here I sit,Cluster fucked, and time on my hands.

As though an unfinished painting,

I wait for my next stroke.

C.A.H.