How tragic it is to be a thinker. To have such a remarkable ability To possess something that creates While, in that process, destroys. I associate with a group of thinkers With no clear place to direct our ideas So they bounce around in our heads Gaining force and speed Becoming more and more painful Until you can label our brains As a weapon of self-destruction. I associate with a group of thinkers Who have thought themselves Into pits of depression Because numbers and endless possibilities Never stop filtering through their head. How sad it is that I associate with people that I can't help I am friends with people Who have driven themselves into introversion People that have too many thoughts to collaborate on But have catapulted themselves into the depths of their own mind An entirely too frightening place to be On your own. How tragic it is to be listening to your friends Evaluating his state of mind While you sit in the back of the car And stare at the analog clock on the dashboard Thinking about different number combinations for 12:36 That 1x2x3=6 and 1+2+3=6 and 6-3=2+1 and 6/3=2+1 How tragic it is to associate with a group of thinkers With no clear place to direct their thoughts And to be a person who cannot pull their friends out From the murky waters of their own mind Let alone herself.