ought.

oh…
i think i should,
i wish i could,
but never have the nerve.

just what in fact
does it take
to work up enough verve?

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naught.

i think i’m fine,
and then i’m not…
i wonder why?
but i forgot.

’cause trying,
crying,
almost dying,
rips you
from the lot.

try scolding,
folding,
and then holding–
pry¬†what’s what
from naught.

and we go.

sometimes you have the feeling of naught,

unsure of the reason or season for ought.

but then comes a summer when sometimes

we know…

and sometimes we feel and sometimes

we grow…

and sometimes

for some reason

per-haps we don’t,

but don’t give up for feeling that

never we won’t.

i love and give and even in funk,

i try to buck up–

not feel like junk.

so hats on

and bats on

and buck up, my girl,

no evil inside exists in that curl.