I am sleepy, so utterly sapped; empty and tired

Drowning; in clotted clay my feelings are mired

My thoughts are a muddy unclear glaze

But I know for sure 'tis not "just a phase"

Although I'm wearied and not certain of much

I do know that I would tremble at her touch

They cast doubt upon insipid waters

Reflecting broken shadows of imperfect daughters

But I can think and speak and understand

And it's girls, not boys, whoI want to hold my hand