it's noise.

it's bustles and white sounds and orchestras of screams
it's sentences without periods and angry machines

it's nothing romantic it's like a busy road
while you're stuck in  traffic trying to reach home

but home is a construction you never wanted to lease
now the sounds are louder as you're crying for peace

a never ending cycle of  static on your radio
you get it unplugged but it still leaves an echo

so you run to a person to someone you believe
you tell them about your day, about those angry machines

but they turn on the television, give a frown and you stop
while your heart breaks in front of them and all they say was
"grow up."

you listen to the static, and the tv and his voice
and you listen to the screams and the sounds without choice
so I tell you this now and I tell you with poise
run away from anxiety cause hell, it's a whole lot of noise.