the needle doesn't shy away from the grooves in a record player it glides over the undulations with ease it does not stop to ask questions but unlike the record player i stop sometimes.
the questions now bottled up a combination of bitterness of Shame of Sadness
they demand to be answered
foaming over the sides like the angry tide
Such pressure they make everything stop.
I want to glide over these hills and valleys to slither across the dark sea
But all i can hear is
Why didn’t you say anything sooner?