The end of the week is tied to the beginning,
And I'm walking in the middle of the loop,
Trying to catch my tail, but I keep on failing,
So I pause my thoughts for a second, my mind needs to regroup.

I listen to the only man walking in the streets past bedtime,
Disturbing the hush of the quietly collected hours,
I don't need a tomorrow to be my ruler, metaphorically or literally,
Snatching them from their stems, I randomly pluck wallflowers.

The paper is anything but crumbled, its corners neat,
But when your pen hinders mine, it's another story,
I fall to the sky-less ground and accept your offer of momentum,
I always have an available casket for my pride to bury.

But when I only stare ahead, I pick that pen again,
I don't compromise, I only climb on my ivy conditions,
Every letter is in pain, as I avenge my sense of being,
Not even in the mirror do I feel this sense of recognition.

By means of my own minutes, I learn and relearn,
How to never color past the lines, and stop when it's needed,
Separate the second chances from the black clouds,
And when the tide swallows me, I will stay firmly started.

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