May be, I am this book on my lap?
the one I usually close to nap.
Then I awake to open it again
but its content makes no sense
Then it does, later, it does not...

May be, I am this pen on my hand?
The one I always seem to understand
whenever I write my ideas down.
It feels like we are fully synchronize
except when its ink runs out...

May be, I am the sofa where I sit?
The one that's quiet and usually doesn't quit
it keeps on holding someone else's weight
Until the weight becomes too much
And then it breaks...

May be, I am just a human like everyone else?
The one that's feels a certain way
but the way she feels
It's not justified by the way she lives
Yet still, she feels like this....

And she doesn't know

Why?