"In london, where the sirens yelp like a helpless dog with his paws stepped on

And the rain comes down in late july
And the record labels call you Why?"

If I could walk out of this house, down the road, and into yours, I would.

What a sad, sad way to think. And already the thought of you is overused- like my preference of commas over any other punctuation. Insignificant, small, curved, dainty.

If I were a symbol, I'd be a comma. Never quite finishing my trail of thought; never quite finishing anything.

I've got so much to do and already Spring's heat is getting to me. When did I ever long for warmth? The sun only swells my skin more, so when I look in the mirror I see nothing but an orb. I want to step out and look at myself objectively, Hide behind my parents'worry lines and just watch.

But I run and I run trapped in my own head, wondering why the numbers never match the view.

I've always known my eyes were broken, now I wonder if theirs are too.

I must finish what I've started.I must finish what I've started.I must finish what I've started.I must finish what I've started. And so, but then...