What Have You Done

I laid in coma of a sort. I laid there in a daze and I herd Bob Dylan's whiney voice far off someplace. He droned on and on about some girl. What do you want from her, Bobby? A kiss? A glance? Something else?

What do you want? I pondered on my bedroom floor thinking he has been here before but yet I know he has never set foot inside my door.

No. He had never set foot in here. The four walls held his voice in thight and inside of me. The echos of a six string rattled my bones and the rest of my soul.

I couldn't face him in reality. I know that now. It would be to much for my little body. My heart and head would burst with so many questions and desiers never dare I speak them to him. No. Never dare I. He is too old now. Or I am too young.

All the same.

So it goes.

So it goes.

Why do I hold you, Bobby, so near and dear to me? What have you done?

What have you done?