(no subject)
Thesis
And my headphones are crooning in my ear.
And sometimes the volume is more than I can bear.
Words I can’t understand,
But they’re pulling me through the clicking of the keyboard.
Just trying to get through all of this and find the right words.
When I write it out, my pen is my heart.
But typing it out, I don’t know where to start.
There’s a cadence in my fingertips,
But that’s nothing compared to and envelope
Touched by my lips, sealed with a kiss.
“It’s seven o’clock on the dot…” but it’s really four past ten.
Trite and true…it’s more than I could handle with you.
So I’m sitting here. In sweats with my hair all messy.
I’m wearing glasses I don’t (really) need, and the frizziness means its clean.
This night feels later than it is, my eyes are getting watery and blurry.
I keep on thinking that my eyes are closing, but if you looked at me
You’d see someone fuzzy around the edges.
I’d say procrastination, but its not true.
What arena am I in? Have I written poetry, or
Is it just my way of stopping my brain from breaking.
She just hit that high note, but it didn’t hurt (my ears)
As much as I thought it would. I’ll let these words of mine
Clatter out to you.
I keep on writing out these lines.
They’re lame, but they’re alive.
I think that I can break up some of this and make something else, or a song.
And my headphones are crooning in my ear.
And sometimes the volume is more than I can bear.
Words I can’t understand,
But they’re pulling me through the clicking of the keyboard.
Just trying to get through all of this and find the right words.
When I write it out, my pen is my heart.
But typing it out, I don’t know where to start.
There’s a cadence in my fingertips,
But that’s nothing compared to and envelope
Touched by my lips, sealed with a kiss.
“It’s seven o’clock on the dot…” but it’s really four past ten.
Trite and true…it’s more than I could handle with you.
So I’m sitting here. In sweats with my hair all messy.
I’m wearing glasses I don’t (really) need, and the frizziness means its clean.
This night feels later than it is, my eyes are getting watery and blurry.
I keep on thinking that my eyes are closing, but if you looked at me
You’d see someone fuzzy around the edges.
I’d say procrastination, but its not true.
What arena am I in? Have I written poetry, or
Is it just my way of stopping my brain from breaking.
She just hit that high note, but it didn’t hurt (my ears)
As much as I thought it would. I’ll let these words of mine
Clatter out to you.
I keep on writing out these lines.
They’re lame, but they’re alive.
I think that I can break up some of this and make something else, or a song.