When does a pause become a silence?
When does a glance become a stare?
When does a hug become holding?
That line that’s barely there.
When does a short story become a novel?
When does a house become a home?
When does a statement become a promise?
That line that can’t be known.
When does a noise become a racket?
When does a drop become a storm?
When does a frown become a scowl?
That line that’s old and worn.
When does a dream become a nightmare?
When does a gray become a blue?
When does a while become forever?
That line I wish I knew.
I used to think that things were black,
And then some things were white.
But now I’m growing up and see
What’s wrong is sometimes right.
There are lines around the world:
Lines that run and hide and change.
Sometimes I think we’ll never know
Just where they stretch and range.
Some lines are not important.
Some lines don’t have to be found.
But then there are the lines
That can’t just be left around.
The world won’t always tell you.
One day you’ll draw your own.
And that’s the hardest part:
When you must draw your lines alone.