Poetry

I have vented my feelings so many times; exaustion is my middle name
Now, I am no longer ready to say a word.
To continue  on the Windmill of your game
Now wanting, waiting, no expecting; just knowing
what you will always do next
It has gotten so very repitisious;
Almost like a mime, annoying
You sat yourself up quite awhile ago; without even knowing
There were so many signs
As if you were driving down the Santa Monica freeway
You chose to ignore them all, going 'round yourself time after time
Even tho', times are rough I feel fine
Guess, it has just gotten to the point where I am not denying me anymore
The windmill keeps on moving in my direction,making me feel like sooner or later
This will come to an end
But let us be friends til it is over; let it fizzle out like a sparkle on the 4th of July