i'm not finshed yet

As i sit here in my own blunder i congress nothing more then a book of pages stagmented every which way you can even imagine;in its own possible form;but i digress,These things i wonder so much before will they form something more,If grass grows it matures slowly like anything else to form,All the possibilitys in which we find are selfs in any case or drastic taste,but it is okay to lose ones self because you get them back,all things are at peace in the end when you are at comfort in the wind on a cools summers day a drop of rain on your skin thinking about nothing else will pass so slowly but for more it will pass sleeping in a bed of nails will i ever get out?