I’m back in my same chair again
and still I study the leaves
and meditate what they mean.
If everyone says the same, doesn't it mean it’s true?
What if the planet is telling me this one thing
and each and every star is echoing the same thing,
so it must be true and then it must be fact.
That means something.

I felt every second and every minute of each hour,
and you can’t even imagine the boredom at the bottom of my stomach;
patch me up and fill me up with something worthy.
Ain’t that somethin’ real?
If everyone says so and it’s worthy of my time,
ain’t it real?

But isn’t that something true to me?
The view, the raw feeling it gives me inside.
The itch I can’t reach and the gnawing inside my stomach,
And the fact that I can’t grasp what I need and it kills me;
And now I’m disturbed and I’m sick and I can’t figure out.
What is this bothering me? Is this something for me?
Tailored, sewn, and pressed for me?

I end my night on my roof,
the stars at my fingertips and the moon as my pillow;
the moon soaking me with a cleansing glow;
the shower up here felt so amazing.
There’s nothing like this type of view.