The Messiah in Miss Hart’s class,
Has torn his hands from the pins that stuck into him with
Doubt at success,
Doubt in the light.
Now, he wonders the desert, to live out his life.
You’re a small percent
But you’re not different

So many ideas, such a creative spark.
But you don’t write a word.
though your brain screams a speech.
You could be in a far off land.
Just lift the pen in your hand.
But your body is a tide pulled by the moon,Hidden
in the sky that’s
Grey enough to ignore.
Grey enough to anger,
Grey enough to cloud a view.
Why am I sat here?,
I have a million things to do?

Chop mushrooms in the kitchen,
Mix in the soup
Eat that mushroom in the dark,
To make your eyes droop.
Cut weeds in the garden,
To clear the flower bed,
Spread weeds at the party,
To stop feeling dead.

You want to escape, so you clasp a headphone to your ear,
But your fantasy should be here,
As you have no work for a year,
You have no purpose for a year.