There is a moaning, in the trees,
Accented by the Summer breeze.
Filled with heat from Sun above,
Is this the sound trees make in love?
The rubbing sound of a thousand leaves
Are sounds of love, among the trees.
My mind is running away from me.
I think I need a pre frontal lobotomy.
Thoughts that are stuffed in every place,
Wedged in cracks or any empty space.
I need some time. Time to think
Or I may have to turn to drink.