I can't see my self in this head space.
I need the constant rhythm, I need to keep time
But this clock doesn't have a second hand.

My "living in the now" is everyone else's nostalgia.
I always feel like I'm living two years in the past.
I guess that's how long it takes to absorb the impact
When the collision is head on.

When I was younger I was always told I was mature for my age.
Thank you, it's the abuse.
Thank you, it's the ****.
Thank you thank you, it's the trauma.

I'm not being honest,
I'm being truthful.

Head turns
Eyes gleam
Brows raise
Lips press
Mouth curls
Head shakes
Eyes roll
Meeting yours
With a mischievous grin
And a glance too long
That seeks to meet,
No, submerge itself in,
And possibly dive the depths of
Yours.
My perpetual smirk,
My curious simper,
My amused beaming,
Must all seem customary now,
But in truth,
the eyes I give you
Are seen by very few.

Night is a black and white movie
with an ever so subtle moonbeam
An orb-weaver to occupy my
thought
A curious bird with a midnight
song
The tapping of a rocker begging
for lyrics
Two a.m. airplanes , nostrils
engulfed in wisteria
Dew shining 'neath street lamps
A crying Epiphone through a
Vox amp