These days there seems to always be this feeling of anticipation,
As if I were waiting for a perfect moment.
And for what? A little fun? A little laugh?
I can’t seem to remember where it began,
I’m always thinking about what it is now,
and never wanting to think about its end.
A photo to place in my scrapbook,
A sentence to scratch on its cover.
I seem to want so much more than I could ever give,
And what I have to give isn’t much.
Besides some crude humor and
Every-now-and-then, insightful remarks.
A concerning individual might raise a brow.