Oh sigh (relief)

I write and I write and I write and it all comes out. There's no way to tell if anything that's up for grabs is any good. If all of it. If none. It comes out and I lay it on the table. And I want to be read.

I read. And I can't breathe in enough of the stuff. I want them all to be my words. Not that I wrote them, or maybe I did, but I own them

And I know them.

There's too much all the time.

And I'm it too.

There's no way, just no way to tell if it's any absolutely any good

But I hope that isn't the case

I write,

All of it,

Out on the table,

And I hope it isn't the case.