What do you come back for?
The vents of a lonely person reaching for attention?
A thought or my "norm" you can relate to?
Or maybe the voice in your head reads these words as if they were yours
you're not alone
you're not crazy
we are with you
don't worry kid, we will be here when you need us
But I still can't help but wonder what if I were to write
"The clouds in the stained gray sky shifted along like pages along the spine of a book,
Littered with dust and soaked with encrypted script,
The silent voices hum and click as steady eyes flutter across stories,
Ancient languages and pristine jackets,
muddy shoes are hidden from professors awaiting your inevitable fall or rise,
the choices to wait and follow or sneak past the brick walls into forbidden land are up to us. They're up to you."
Maybe the audience would applaud
Maybe they'd be disappointed
The pretentious words don't spill like the vents,
but rather seep into your ears as you contemplate boarding schools, libraries, and sneaking out
you work harder that way for the same unstable feeling
But it is a more beautiful form of art
I don't seek unfulfillment and emptiness
But rather worn stone walls, piles of yellowed books, and a cup of tea
Take this as an oppourtunity to tell me what you'd like me to attempt to write more of
Or sit back and watch as I try and figure out how to become immortal