Put on my worried shoes.

Broken. A state, seemingly sad, but none the less inquisitive. How did I get here? Maybe on a sail boat called September. It's always treated me well before. Surely this time would be the same. Everything is new. The people I've heard about for years finally drift into view. They're from out of town. They're from where it is always snowing and always sunny. At the same time. The feelings, like something is missing. Because something is. The one who taught love has passed. So I take all that I know, and tuck it away. I can't forget. I must not forget anything. It rained once. Never enough. How dreary is it that there can never be enough? I worry. It's new. I've never really worried before. Never known how. It's one of those matters, similar to crying, that can't be taught or explained. It simply happens. Inspiration is overflowing, but the trouble seems to be in captivating it. All I can do is dream, and wait for the leaves to fall. I put on my worry shoes. They're yellow. Golden. Goldenrod. My worry shoes are goldenrod, like the crayon. Soon, I'll meet a monster and we'll fall in love and October will come and I'll be free again. As for now, I'll rest until my mind has settled. Only to wake up again and let it roam recklessly through memory and hope.