Sick and tired
Of being good at looking fine
Where should my heavy head go when I cry?
Not on a shoulder
You're not showing the signs

How odd that it is that
When you talk about your's
And I talk about mine
We're speaking in differing tongues, and times
Mine is far back down the line

Where is my circle of sobbing friends?
My pats on the back,
Or someone other than my mother
To keep me on track
Someone other than a figure
Glasses, sweater
That can trigger progression
Without stripping my family
Of groceries for the week

Where is the understanding
That I was indeed in love
To the point where I panicked
Flew a line
Blew my sanity
And ran it all the way back to what
I must be and remain
Just an awkward, sophomore
Scatterbrain.