The status of my being: busy.

Sometimes too busy to pick up the broken pieces from the pound in front and glue myself together. Maybe one day, you’ll run over my left eye with your bike and you won’t even know it was me. You won’t care that it was me, because the old me is buried deeper then the dirt of the water.

Deeper than the innocence of the soul that’s shattered now in fairy dust and plant hallucinate dramatic. To be the broken piece or to just walk tall without a half a personality in turning the girl I never thought out to be? Rhetorical question for the sunny fake warm days

Busy puppet enjoying the small pleasure of Asian cuisine filling my stomach with endless flavor, my mouth with endless happy poison and my brain with redundant knowledge.

The actual status of my being: waiting

Waiting for mr. right to brush gently his headlights next to me.
To carry me in a world where people are warmer than icebergs and colder than birds on a mating season.
To teach me how to fly even if my wings are at the auto-shop.
To teach me how to row straight, detour people’s cruelness and avoid the lakes from my eyes to break their barriers.

The wanted status of my being: to reach the final minute of waiting