Calling It

In a book I write words meaningless.
Rolling along like a limp fish.
Painful. Wandering. Always meandering.
Wondering about far too many things.
So you wandered in, looking on
With a light in your eyes.

I'm calling it. I'm calling it y'all.
Inside me is florescence
A colour so bright
But wasted in mind games
It's never truly alight.

So I'm calling it. Calling it now.
This is not where I'm headed
And you're all about now.
True also neither of us need it
But you're still looking, wondering how,

So there, I called it.