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Out Of My Book We sat by ourselves, still looking for company; there could have been peace, but that eluded me - all I could think of was what was on my mind. You tried to be kind, but I blocked your feelings. Now, senses still reeling, you sit in your quiet room and cry. You tried to make me one, but I always hide when there's a glimpse of sun. Running along in sunlight meadows, your eyes were never more than half-closed: through fluttering lashes, you watched me watching you. I tried to be true to the way that you thought I ought to be but, in spite of all my efforts, I failed. I tried to make you see but your eyes are blind to all but the bad in me. What do you think I mean when I say that I need you? How am I supposed to seem when we hit another problem and the answers are all torn from my book? Our lives are on paths we just can't control; we can grow closer as we get old. Can you imagine us as we adjust? Can you imagine us getting near eighty; we live more sedately, still hoping the dreams will come true? We'll try to be secure. But I'm of uncertain mind and how can I be sure? How can I be sure?
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