progressive sarpedon My fingers tremble in anticipation But anticipation for what? I've set out all my thoughts and words On the wooden table in front of you Hoping that one day, soon You would do the same for me And lay a thought or two onto the Creaking, wooden table I would continue to pile words up But my words are not meant nothing They have a finite and limited supply And once I know you are not accepting them They just pile up, going to waste And going to be forgotten in time I long for your words Give them, carry them, deliver them, Or even just have them gift-wrapped and sent At least I will know my energy has not gone to waste Each new word, phrase, and emotion Comes with it a tax, a progressive one at that The more I spend, the greater the toll Each word extracts from my mind 030201 what's it to you? who go blather from