Whether it's her or me,
My thoughts get jumbled on the way out.
My tongue forms intricate knots even the most
Skilled rope expert would be hard pressed to undo.
The silence drags on, and it makes my brain screech
Nothing comes out, what finally does
Is the equivalent of Bieber writing music for Beethoven...and I find
My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.

From spinning galaxies colliding in intergalactic bursts of light traveling millions of miles every hour, to dying stars fueling the birth and rebirth of new civilizations and planets, of new life, of new beginnings, from the infinite multidimensional plane of the universe that's the palate for these swirls of light and heat
To the intricate workings and cognitive enigmas of love, the springs and cogs of joy, the blackened cogs of sorrow, covered in soot
To the formation of billions of these unending universes that, in time will flourish or wither...
The distances between these universes are huge, yet traveling these wide expanses take trillionths of billionths of seconds, and the celestial dance between universes of ideas, galaxies of concepts, black holes of love and despair, quasars pulsing pure energy everywhere, everything coming together in a spectacular array of light and heat...universes within universes spin and dance in my brain and neurons fire as galaxies die, pathways travelled as planets are born, and nerve endings stimulated as supernovas fueling them...all of this for one idea. Millions upon millions of universes are born and die in my head, and because of it the universe doesn't seem so small..after all, billions exist in our brains.
Yet, in all of that, these dazzling arrays of light are compressed into infinitesimally tiny spaces...it's not surprising that something's lost in the process.
It's amazing to think that so much is in our heads, that so much happened in our heads for us to realize so much happens in our heads, that  so much happens for such simple ideas...the sheer amazement that should be felt is painfully lacking.
The perfection of the stars is lost on paper.

Something's lost, between the beginning of a universe, the birth of new stars and systems, and between our final actions. It's lost in translation.

I have entire galaxies in my head, but I speak mere stars.

The most beautiful and perfect thoughts, instances,
Can be, with the right mind, turned into a grimy, mushy slime,
Or lost completely.
The most lovely and flawless sounds,
Can be, with the right ears, twisted into
Unintelligible gibberish and gobbledegook
Or missed completely.
The most divine and impeccable sights
Can be, with the right eyes, morphed into senseless shapes and forms,
Or avoided completely.
They're never kept,
Always lost on me.
I'm a bad game of telephone, a malformed lump of coal once surrounded by others.
Pressure wouldn't settle for anything less than the best out of them.
What works for them breaks for me.
I'm a bad game of telephone.

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

The number of years it's been,
The number of times I've tried to join you since,
And the number of days left until your memory is celebrated.