questionable motives

Letter number: 36848173

i sit on my hands
and bite my lip
and conjure up dreams of lands
not-so-far-off
and plan my trip
there
anxiety
and eagerness is there
tension
and a little bit of fear
words i might not like to hear
lie precociously on the edge
just outside my ear
tension
and a little bit of fear is there
dreams of hands tangled in my hair
as always, there is symbolism there
without any merit or gain
a heart and mind poured out in vain
to a man without the time to hear
and yet the time draws near
she puts the best slant on the whole situation
she has the basic realization
that the man holding this pedistal down
has a financial obligation
there's no time for thoughtful conversation
and the acid faerie flutters off as if to find some recreation
she'll let others think elsewise of this coy insinuation
she has no obligation
no attatchments
and no expectation
but there's a longing there
for the good times promised her, for the hands caught in her hair
she desperately longs for some kind of restoration
just a sliver of your precious time, one precious line of improvisation


but i sit on my hands
and I bite my lip
i notice the signs
and try to play them off
maybe you are just busy
maybe you just have nothing to say
maybe you don't have the time of day
and while I preach that I have no attatchments,
that I have no expectations
that I can roll with the punches and not be needy
that I love to share love and I'm not greedy
I can't help but notice the signs
of someone who doesn't have the time
to take interest in little ol' me
I have little to offer but empty memes
empty thoughts and empty dreams
empty ideas and empty things
a pretty face that sometimes sings
who would take interest in little ol' me?
I'm not exotic or rich or free
to go and live and do and be
I'm just a student of synchronicity
quantum psychology and Leary's circuitry
neurometaphysics and metaphysiology
who would take interst in little ol' me?


I sit on my hands and bit my lip
and think of the implications
of this long-awaited trip
analyzing the way things were and all the ways they've changed
I wonder if the looks we'd give then
will be the ones we'll still exchange
It seems the flavor I once had to offer
has lost its potency
or has somehow grown old
or the song that we were singing snapped a string
or the story I'm writing has already been told
tell me I'm wrong
tell me I'm paranoid
tell me you're just busy
tell me anything
tell me while I'm writing lyrics, while I tune this string
just tell me anything


and why don't you ever call me?

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