My side of the Earth is wrapped in cellophane, Wherever I walk the ground Scrunches, Mornings feel like the first pages of different books, A foreign blink to a familiar eye.
Sometimes I feel no pressure to unpack the stars, Laying on my back in a room with no wires, Though sometimes I'd plug the moon, and watch how it scares away the ghosts, Their silhouettes marching on the walls, Or maybe that's me running from my thoughts.
The ground feels like it's squeezing my toes, Burying the soles of my feet in the sand, I hang the sea on the far horizon, Just to have something to pull me ahead.
In my two-bedroom cardboard reality, My mistakes are never quiet, Going through the tracts I've burrowed in my existence, I can't find the hinges that hold my world together, Or the patterns that could help me try.
Why does the water taste like it's from a different planet? Maybe it's just me, Afraid to get too comfortable, With a present seemingly not mine, A sketch I started drawing, But felt like I lacked the talent to finish.