Instead I'll shake myself enough to want some justice but not tremble raging tears down to my sick hands to only drown myself by noon. I will smile at the future, but only that in which the future has been dateless since forever. I won't pretend that these tomorrows have grown cheery but not clever. Can I get a word in my own mind so I can make it to the sunset and see colors still? Will the creator of these colors somehow come and speak in favor? I've waited