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We speak the same languages That’s all that it is It’s not the skin or the anatomy that comes within It’s the way that we argue over something small
My fingers wildly compose literary sheet music of emotions. Scaling keystrokes somehow translate my inner entity and immortalizes it with words.
I don't ask for much, I don't expect much either, Not from you anyway, All I really want Need From you is Your acceptance. Am I asking too much? Because you're making it Seem so.
Aisles of white, and read By scholars and hoodlums alike, Segregated by understanding, sight Of the future is too often said. The march of the Pedagogue Held count by the beads of the Abacus,
An ode to the immature and the unworthy. Spare me your frivolous troubles,