Written word turns down my crazy-love-sparkle-shout just a notch
I think my humor doesnt fit well on paper.
I'm pretty sure my happiness has to move with my hands and my lips and my hair.
Whenever letters form words, and I've a pen in my hand, everything inside me coalesces
and cools,
like a breeze on a calm lake
Nothing shouts, no one echos.
and whatever I was is a summer day, and a dreary lid,
and I can only speak like my mouth is filled with old books
and sighing.
I'm pretty sure my happiness has to move with my hands and my lips and my hair.
Whenever letters form words, and I've a pen in my hand, everything inside me coalesces
and cools,
like a breeze on a calm lake
Nothing shouts, no one echos.
and whatever I was is a summer day, and a dreary lid,
and I can only speak like my mouth is filled with old books
and sighing.