Here I sit in a dusty old attic,
My skin cooled by a rolling breeze.
Around me is the loudest silence
Created by them, the people
Who tell me I shouldn't drive.
1:05 AM. I sit and I write.
They don't ask me why I write,
Those people in the attic.
I jot down that I would like to drive
With the wind rolling past, the breeze
Leading me away from the people.
1:28 AM. All I hear is silence.
Then away it goes, the silence
Fades as I fail to write
About the people
Inside of that old attic.
As I sit, in rolls the breeze.
2:01 AM. I let my hand begin to drive.
I begin to realize I have no drive,
My passion an echoing silence,
My interests the fickle breeze.
Still I sit and I write
Inside of this dusty attic.
2:57 AM. I can still hear people.
They can't hear me, the people,
the ones who said I shouldn't drive.
They're sitting in the attic,
and still I hear the silence
Which is forcing me to write.
3:04 AM. I feel a cool breeze.
I can no longer feel the breeze.
They can't see me, the people,
As I am bent double, unable to write.
They are no longer there to say I can't drive.
It fades from me, the cacophonous silence.
3:36 AM. I am leaving the attic.
I walk through the breeze. I start to drive.
The people are left with nothing but silence,
As they see what I write in a dusty old attic.