The kitchen knife I'm cutting with chops the onions chops my heart.
with every chop i feel a release. then cry. the onions are not the only reasons my eyes are moist but i wouldn't tell them that. i finish no more to chop. I'm washing off the peels I'm rinsing away the pain. No one knows or cares i left them behind. i want to wash the sting from my eyes the onion from my hand. but no matter what i do the onion pain sticks.
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Not all who wander are lost they simply wander for wisdom and freedom.
About Me
- broadwaybabe
- far away, not here but there, United States
- i am me no more, no less.
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