I started reading late and never learnt to put down the book
I guess I burnt out with the strength learning took
I couldn't stop spewing the facts that I learnt in school
But now when I open my mouth I cant help playing the fool
I guess I stopped using words that others could question
I guess I got tired of being the only one awake in lessons
I guess it's not worth it to embrace a humming mind
When being alone is the only solace that I find
Because honestly, we are "in clanging space a moment heard"
And Yeats is the only friend that doesn't think I'm absurd
And my friends take the **** because I read poetry while simultaneously they're reading books that I breathe
"If its not on the curriculum then it doesn't count"
Well I read it all years ago, want to know what its about?
Maybe its dense to think that English Lit numbs your mind but I didn't take the subject and it didn't stunt the meanings that I find
I guess it's my fault for reading Leroux instead of Meyer
But the only fantasy I need has a mask hiding layers
And I guess Lloyd Webber gave it a rebirth but The Phantom of the Opera was my favourite book first
I wish that reading books could make me superior
But I'm in a corner, lips tight, perpetually inferior
I wish I'd learnt the things that they'd learnt in school
Like throwing parties and talking back and breaking the rules
I'm caught between one extreme and the next
One second I'm curled thinking alone the next I'm having ***
Because when I voice my thoughts they're warped and inaccurate
Sometimes I wonder if I'd express them better if I'd stayed celibate
Surely talking shouldn't be so hard
But it's difficult to hold back the words that I want to discard
Discard because my head hurts from the pressure
Of the thoughts that no right mind could measure
I suffer from the pain of never feeling understood but honestly, I would push you away if you could