If my lips were a pen, then I’d be eloquent, flowing, and articulate. My words would run like rain drops, sweet and sour, falling in a perfect pattern of seclusion. They would make the right sounds, be charming and sweet. Words would be like breathing, easy and fruitful, filling and perfect. The way that life lies each day is like a burden. My words are painful now, with no pen for lips. Crushing and awkward, bubbling and frightful, they stumble over one another in a desperate attempt to make sense of my scandalous world. Tell me that you understand. But right now, I’m afraid you don’t. Sometimes I try to make sense of everything, but end up just confusing my self more than I initially was. So trust my judgment, kiss my lips, and let the words flow like rain, sweet and sour.