A black book of feelings lies on my bedroom floor,
Beside an abandoned book of rambling,
That left my brain sore.

My foot is tapping to my heartbeat,
As my blood is pumped round and round.
While my ears explore the silence,
Of the things that can't be found.

A revolutionary thought appears,
To quickly disappear again,
So I curse my brain remembering that memory isn't my friend.

And my tongue stutters and trips over itself,
Making fools out of my teeth,
As I tell my friends they're materialistic,
For not realizing what's best lies underneath.