The momentum of the earth seems to be squared,
As it's June out of nowhere.

Whenever I'm nervous,
Whenever my mind stops working,
Whenever I feel I've nowhere to go I look for you Krishna,
My magic I need you again and always.

Maybe
If I write happy things
It’ll leak onto me...

Poor poor Sisyphus
Rolling a stone up a hill
Nearly get to the top, he did
But the rock rolled down and fell.

Crushed beneath the burden
Of his own type of hell
Destined to labor forever
Rolling that **** stone up a hill.

F-flippantly finding four friends of mine praying
I-in cages bound wrists floundered hopelessness
N-nevertheless, the day after was flaying
E-everything, it was changing, don’t worry, I’m fine.

I’m 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 everything I need
I’m spoiled and I should be 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺.
“𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦, 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦, 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦”
It’s like a 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵 or maybe a 𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦.
“𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦, 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦, 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦”
It doesn’t matter if it’s just fog and conjecture.
I don’t deserve to be sad, I don’t.
I’ve never experienced hardship the way
My 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 did, my 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 did,
Or the people I read of online.
There is no cause for me to lash out,
There is no cause for me to run away
From my own 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 in my 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥.
And yet, they tell me I don’t deserve to be 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺 either.
“𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥,” they whisper.
Did you know that whispers can be loud?
Did you know that quiet can hurt?

I can’t be 𝘴𝘢𝘥 and I can’t be 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺-

I can’t be 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 and I can’t be 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨-

What is there left for me to be?