I rattle on like the wind if you let me
I make a million plans a minute
To go a million places
And **** a million women.
I spin silken sterling yarn with my silver tongue
But I can't do much else.
Not too surprisingly, plenty of people don't care for me.
And for a while I was among them-
The product of an overanalytical mind and a policy of no-******* cynical honesty (or maybe honest cynicism), I suppose.

However, on my good days I know it to be true, that I
Can't change them, can't change me.
Why try?

I was built
To fly by the seat of my pants
And try to use my best judgement-
Though I'm probably going to lose my mind
And all my money
And friends
In the process.

We'll see.

The road stretches infinitely onward,
To the bitter end-

God knows I'll get there someday.

Am I lunatic
Hypersensitive
Overanalytical
Supercritical
Manic yet depressive
Compassionate and understanding
Closed off but wishing  youd hold me
Celebrating the solstice,
In control but only of the opportunities presented
I come out in the night to worship the moon
Lunatic
Why is your eye twitching, red with tears
might be rage
I thought you said you said you wouldn’t quiver in the face of uncertainty
Bask in the darkness
your dance will lead the light to you

The feelings they’re flowing…
Out of nowhere, plainly thin air, from my mind to my pen they’re going,
Rushing in fast, seemingly like a river, crashing like a wave, my overanalytical mind making me dig deeper,
The feelings they’re unstoppable…
Hard to define, circumventing at times, impossible,
Can’t catch a break, no smiles left to fake, they’re not plausible,
I don’t know the aim, making me go insane, out of my mind,
In a rush, while in no rush at all, feeling out of time,
The feelings they’re overwhelming…
No explanation to you or myself, dealing with the hand I’m dealt, deeper than I’ve ever felt,
Heart beating faster and faster, concern and stress are my masters,
The feelings they’re strumming…
No rhyme or reason, energy depleting, without the mercy of being mind numbing,
My patience is what they test, without an inkling of rest, exhausted and alone,
Broken and open, no one knows but my pen, that my heart is waiting for its pieces to be sewn.