to you.

like a massive white wall that has years of grim and scuff-marks.
i stare at you in complete overwhelm thinking "this job is too great for me"
...someone of my stature.

i can't stand tall enough to paint your very tiptop.
to cover your scratches.

and you aren't my wall to fix anyway.
though offer suggestiong i might. if no one has the energy or the desire to make you shiney and new...it may never happen.

so we all stand here - my crew of critics and i - with furrowed brows, hands to our chin, tapping our feet.
knowing what needs to be done.
each of us wanting to fix this wall our certain way.
each of us knowing our way is the best.

but no one is as frustrated as i am that the wall just doesn't seem to paint itself.

i love what the wall was when it was first built.
i love what the wall - in my mind - is going to be when someone finally touches it up.

magic doesn't happen overnight, i guess. so i sit. wanting. aching. needing you to make yourself something i want to look at.

right now, i don't want to look at you.