Here I am, once again,
Taking up my tired old pen,
Scratching down letters,
That like words, describe no better.
What I feel such hate, such rage,
Tone them down, they burn the page.
Sometimes I say, just let it go,
Only to remember, and tell myself no.
It's all too painful, now I see,
To let someone to glance inside of me.
Because tomorrow will be just like yesterday,
When I most want to talk, I'm turned away.
It's all in my timing, I truly know,
I catch you busy, you've got to go.
It os elsewhere, not on this earth,
Where busy is nothing, time is mirth.
That's whjen someone stops, who knows me well,
And never caring what I'd fallen on, picks me when I fall.