Isn’t it amazing how other beings could easily write down their thoughts into words?
Satisfying, to watch a painter turn it’s longing into a piece?
How wonderful, to hear a song from a broken heart
Or by simply reading a poem created by solitude.
I envy those beings—because here I am, the only thing I could do is cry those thoughts out loud.
Figuratively, I don’t cry out loud—maybe because I live as the same roof as my parents, dammit.
No—actually, I live with the expectations peers are dictating me to be.
So yeah—I must not cry
Just antsy, yes.