Someone else's words, a quiet introspection
You said you thought I was cute, but I'm just a cut flower.
I have a job that makes my study feel like a calling, beautifully real friends, housemates who make me feel I've known them all my life. I'm living in the sort of room I always imagined, sloping ceiling, white walls and dark wood, room for even more books. Home is still eight hours drive away, but I should be happy here. The home from my dreams is full of workmates and friends who don't belong there.
I believe beauty was drowned in because.
I shred your soft eyes with my cynicism, because if I let you get close I know we will both only get hurt. I think that I'm better off drinking alone, but I don't know how to end it while I'm still having fun. You tell me your heart belongs to someone else, and I tell you the tin clock in my chest stopped years ago, no one knows quite why. It's not worth a trip down the yellow brick road, though. I try to get you out of my mind, focus on subordinate legislation and ultra vires, black letter law that never lept off the page to make anyone feel. Nothing lovely can survive the ferocity of absolute truth.
We're made up of moments and fingernails, toenails, and hair
This might be someone else's early twenties. I feel so far beneath my skin that I'm no longer responsible for my own sensations. A sixteen year old would call it numb, but I curl the blankets tighter against the world and relish having nothing to cry for. I wonder idly if this is a waste of some glory years, but I've got no real need to pursue the expected. Time is fleeting, and I sink into a novel, the words washing comfortingly through my eyes while I float on beautiful words and the sorts of noble ideas that seem so missing when the pages are closed.
Turn the lights out, close my eyes now
I have a job that makes my study feel like a calling, beautifully real friends, housemates who make me feel I've known them all my life. I'm living in the sort of room I always imagined, sloping ceiling, white walls and dark wood, room for even more books. Home is still eight hours drive away, but I should be happy here. The home from my dreams is full of workmates and friends who don't belong there.
I believe beauty was drowned in because.
I shred your soft eyes with my cynicism, because if I let you get close I know we will both only get hurt. I think that I'm better off drinking alone, but I don't know how to end it while I'm still having fun. You tell me your heart belongs to someone else, and I tell you the tin clock in my chest stopped years ago, no one knows quite why. It's not worth a trip down the yellow brick road, though. I try to get you out of my mind, focus on subordinate legislation and ultra vires, black letter law that never lept off the page to make anyone feel. Nothing lovely can survive the ferocity of absolute truth.
We're made up of moments and fingernails, toenails, and hair
This might be someone else's early twenties. I feel so far beneath my skin that I'm no longer responsible for my own sensations. A sixteen year old would call it numb, but I curl the blankets tighter against the world and relish having nothing to cry for. I wonder idly if this is a waste of some glory years, but I've got no real need to pursue the expected. Time is fleeting, and I sink into a novel, the words washing comfortingly through my eyes while I float on beautiful words and the sorts of noble ideas that seem so missing when the pages are closed.
Turn the lights out, close my eyes now