Nov 2014
The train screams and you twitch your fingers
consciously, yet still nervously,
you're thinking about the first time you attempted,
and it's vivid and terrifying,
like dreams of falling that last one second,
but strung together for about five minutes.
You breathe irregularly.
You think about how most people can't read your handwriting.
You write a masterpiece on the pillow,
right next to her head. Hope that she sleeps better than you,
with sweet thoughts she easily forgets,
and the bass of that train rocks the
boulder in your stomach.
You shift your feet, your legs, your body, close your eyes,
exhale,
and pretend you are completely still,
but subconsciously those fingers are twitching,
until the feeling is gone.
Nobody has time for me, I wanna cry so bad
but I'm afraid if anybody hears me sobbing
I'll get harder on myself even though last night
I wanted to ******* but my body wanted to call it quits,
but my mind was so awake I didn't sleep for a single second.
Or maybe I did.
I keep thinking about how
I never know when I'll see you next.
It's like I tried so hard to just be ******* miserable,
I bought a notebook, but locked myself out,
so I yelled at it for twenty minutes or so;
"WHAT THE **** WAS I SUPPOSED TO BE?
THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"
This music thing was supposed to be my dream,
and Austin you're gonna go places, or get everything you want,
my mother says we'll make millions off of all my ****** songs,
as soon as I'm on the radio,
but who the **** listens to the radio?
People counted on me to be someone,
like I'm ******* somebody whose supposed to be somebody.
I've ******* ruined people for you.
I've done things I still can't live with,
and most of them started with a pen.
I'm supposed to love music, these songs were supposed to
take the sadness out of my head and make it tangible,
but instead it made them permanent.
So everyone else gets to be saved by music,
but I get to destroy myself with it.
My head gets so ******* loud at night.
Everything is in caps lock.
I stay up for days on end
until the feeling is gone.
consciously, yet still nervously,
you're thinking about the first time you attempted,
and it's vivid and terrifying,
like dreams of falling that last one second,
but strung together for about five minutes.
You breathe irregularly.
You think about how most people can't read your handwriting.
You write a masterpiece on the pillow,
right next to her head. Hope that she sleeps better than you,
with sweet thoughts she easily forgets,
and the bass of that train rocks the
boulder in your stomach.
You shift your feet, your legs, your body, close your eyes,
exhale,
and pretend you are completely still,
but subconsciously those fingers are twitching,
until the feeling is gone.
Nobody has time for me, I wanna cry so bad
but I'm afraid if anybody hears me sobbing
I'll get harder on myself even though last night
I wanted to ******* but my body wanted to call it quits,
but my mind was so awake I didn't sleep for a single second.
Or maybe I did.
I keep thinking about how
I never know when I'll see you next.
It's like I tried so hard to just be ******* miserable,
I bought a notebook, but locked myself out,
so I yelled at it for twenty minutes or so;
"WHAT THE **** WAS I SUPPOSED TO BE?
THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"
This music thing was supposed to be my dream,
and Austin you're gonna go places, or get everything you want,
my mother says we'll make millions off of all my ****** songs,
as soon as I'm on the radio,
but who the **** listens to the radio?
People counted on me to be someone,
like I'm ******* somebody whose supposed to be somebody.
I've ******* ruined people for you.
I've done things I still can't live with,
and most of them started with a pen.
I'm supposed to love music, these songs were supposed to
take the sadness out of my head and make it tangible,
but instead it made them permanent.
So everyone else gets to be saved by music,
but I get to destroy myself with it.
My head gets so ******* loud at night.
Everything is in caps lock.
I stay up for days on end
until the feeling is gone.
