My fingers press against the keys,
as if they are as beautiful as the notes
you play at the bars during the night.

My mind whirls around all of these words,
stored in the book shelf called my thoughts.  
Trying to make connections to all of the mis-tied knots.

My eyes look disturbed with the visions of my past
that compel me to to tie, search, and press.
This is why I write. I only make connections.