Thoughts spinning, creating insanity, Twenty Four Seven.
God do I Wish I could be sweet old Eleven.
All wanting sanctuary, Want to be on Cloud Nine.
Instead we sit in our lullaby,  stuck in Our Rhyme.
Black Crows fading in the grass field.
Turning fast , to defend, pulling out The Zelda Shield.
Whistling back and forth, calming nerves.
Heart dropping, where tires are not stopping, she swerves.
Music helps along the way,
Helping figure out a reasonable comeback to say.
Waking up, you're my savior.
Finding the key to this rusty ****** door.
Living in the unknown,
Almost nothing is really shown.
Under the blankets is where She turns Alive.
With no Authority, all She does is Connive.
Each measly passing second,
She drowns slowly, hesitant to go in the deep end.
About to die, left with ourselves, are only true friend.
High hopes, the letter She wrote was for you,
Collecting thoughts of passion was all She could pass on through.
Through the trees, fast speeds show flashes of unconscious views.
Jumping off the rock sides, She misunderstands, How to find her Muse.
With my canoe, I'll trying my best to save you.
Every bone in my body needs to, cringes, fiends, breaks, as you petrified me to do.
She spoke out, in no means of worries.
Not listening, growing ignorant.
Unaware of Her affair,
Leaving Her, to jump, leaving Her indignant.
She becomes whole, in the Levant.
(est.j.r.e.)