I hate it when CD's don't have the songs numbered

Taken from my journal, in which I had to pull over on the way home to write in.

You grow up.
You realize nothing will ever be really "right with the world" again.
Not since sitting in the backseat of your parent's car, wind on your face, sunset out your window.
But you settle.
You settle for just okay.
Today.
Today everything was "okay with the world".
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Your arms wrapped around me like a corset.
Your lips upon my chest.

Stop.
You're draining my heart.
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Crap! But I wrote. I wrote and I had to write. It hasn't flowed from me like this in a long damn time. I would cry at the release, the relief, but I'm afraid I'd scare it away. My creativity feels like a frightened little animal inching cautiously toward the light. I hope this lasts.

And I thought I had to get hurt in order to write again.
Silly me, not with what I've stored...just turn the light on in the basement girl.

P.S. I have Angelina pics from the premiere if anyone wants them. :)