Why is it
that in America
everybody cries
inwardly
of being alone?

I'm worried that someday
you'll wake up
and realize those people
who were right in front of you
are now far gone.

What could've been so easy
is out of your grasping reach.

It's the material things
that have become the suffocation--
a lonesome, final end.

I don't want to be
apart of that end
because what was promised to me,
is a promise I hope for
eternally.

I am soft
and I am no good
at speaking
but I have a hunger
I have a passion for knowing
and though I keep most things inside
I am about to burst out of my seams.