If I was a singer I wouldn't be able to show you my words; even as a writer I still can't get you to hear them.
Every moment I spend staring at my sentences, there is no best way for you to process them in your heart.
Only you as my reader can only see how deep my poem lays on a paper, and as a listener, the feeling the floats in the air.
There's too much that could be written, but theres only a few combinations to win over your ears and eyes.
My pen cannot say no to the paper, only my ideas interfere with my motivations.
I can't make this anymore cliche, because I'm still grasping on the meaning, whether it's understood or not.
Beauty isn't made, but art is, and my I'm defiantly not a work of art, I'm the paper that's running around the rim of the trash can.
I'm busting my knees to walk across this path, and I don't need to step on a thorn you placed there.
The term forever seems to be finite to what we can't comprehend as time, I'm losing track of the days and what's being created.
There's something about playing cards that seems I am not dealing with at this moment in time.
I'm looking under colors and over the black and white, I seem to place my intelligence into irrelevance.
This note is a bunch of words that don't make sense to my ears, but I guess I'm not to hear what I am writing.
My pen is running out of ink, because each idea is falling off the paper and slipping back into the bottle.
A wise man said that he'd close the bottle just to save your breath, and I've been constantly looking for.
I can't rhyme or seem to make sense, I'm just relying on drawing words from my mind to keep this going.
I've lost the idea of if I am walking on gravel, or if I am walking on quick sand, because either way I don't feel level to anyone's eyes.
I stand emotionless and my thoughts are about to give way, each day is is a dull haze, I can only grasp what's going on in the present.
From the past to the future I can't predict but I was never a fortune teller anyway.
I'm losing things to oil that is beneath my hands, everything I grab ahold of slips out of my hands like the soap bar in the shower.
I've stayed true, but I've been seen as crossing the wrong road, I guess I proving things to a wall, and we know they can see very well
