There Are Bridges You Didn't Know You Crossed Until You've Crossed
I touch my pen to paper, and somehow- remarkably so- it still works
I’ve been so tired, so sad, so alone. I’ve been so frustrated, so confused, so homesick for a home I don’t think exists- well, not yet anyway.
I touch my pen to my paper and somehow it still works-I fell…better
I’m that girl in muted colors who you look straight through; you can’t know how those empty glances push through me like rusted butter knifes, because I am here damn it, even though I wish I wasn’t and I wish I didn’t care.
I touch my pen to my paper, and somehow it still works- I become who I want to be, or perhaps simply who I always was.
I’m that girl scribbling frantically in her notebook on the bus, letting her ideas and thoughts and loneliness transform themselves into something beautiful as they travel to her hands. It doesn’t matter if you think I’m crazy because if I were to ever stop writing, I wouldn’t have the courage to look up from this page.
I touch my pen to paper and somehow it still works- I can be okay for one more day
For one more day I can keep going, feeling okay enough with myself to ignore the pieces of broken glass I can feel sitting in the pit of my stomach. I can see the pieces of myself reflected in that broken mirror; 7 years bad luck.
I touch my pen to paper and somehow- remarkably so- it still works.
I’ve been so tired, so sad, so alone. I’ve been so frustrated, so confused, so homesick for a home I don’t think exists- well, not yet anyway.
I touch my pen to my paper and somehow it still works-I fell…better
I’m that girl in muted colors who you look straight through; you can’t know how those empty glances push through me like rusted butter knifes, because I am here damn it, even though I wish I wasn’t and I wish I didn’t care.
I touch my pen to my paper, and somehow it still works- I become who I want to be, or perhaps simply who I always was.
I’m that girl scribbling frantically in her notebook on the bus, letting her ideas and thoughts and loneliness transform themselves into something beautiful as they travel to her hands. It doesn’t matter if you think I’m crazy because if I were to ever stop writing, I wouldn’t have the courage to look up from this page.
I touch my pen to paper and somehow it still works- I can be okay for one more day
For one more day I can keep going, feeling okay enough with myself to ignore the pieces of broken glass I can feel sitting in the pit of my stomach. I can see the pieces of myself reflected in that broken mirror; 7 years bad luck.
I touch my pen to paper and somehow- remarkably so- it still works.