Words spill from me, br Not tip-toe but rolly-polly br Onto the floor. br But they’re two-year-olds not teens br And they don’t make any sense. br They simply fall over themselves, br Especially when around you. br They’d like to make sense. br They stutter and gurgle br And point distractedly, br A mime effect, br A struggle for clarity. br With big blue eyes br They look out onto the world br Confused and irritated br Because no one can understand. br Instead a cheek is taken br In forefinger and thumb, br Squeezed tightly br And then forgotten. br And my words are left br To totter off br To find others of their kind, br Who might just understand.