Pens running out ink
But my words are just running
Out of spaces to put themselves in
Trees are grown in allocated spots
So we have room to pick apples
Never sad in their growth
Unless something is wrong
Even bumpy roads are still solid
So if you trip
You’ll end up on the ground
Not beyond the earth
Regardless of the hollow
Veins on the inside of your
Elbow my make you feel
The yellow sprinkled on green
Sprouted on brown
Can bring back home in
City lights and iced coffee
Maybe you’re none of the above
And maybe you’re all of the above
At least know that the wind
Blowing in your face
Could be forever
If you wanted to stay
And allocate your own design
So your branches can also expand
The way your eyes hold
More and more galaxies
Every time you blink
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Pens running out ink
But my words are just running
Out of spaces to put themselves in
Trees are grown in allocated spots
So we have room to pick apples
Never sad in their growth
Unless something is wrong
Even bumpy roads are still solid
So if you trip
You’ll end up on the ground
Not beyond the earth
Regardless of the hollow
Veins on the inside of your
Elbow my make you feel
The yellow sprinkled on green
Sprouted on brown
Can bring back home in
City lights and iced coffee
Maybe you’re none of the above
And maybe you’re all of the above
At least know that the wind
Blowing in your face
Could be forever
If you wanted to stay
And allocate your own design
So your branches can also expand
The way your eyes hold
More and more galaxies
Every time you blink
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