My head has a wooden door in it
And I can’t seem to find the time to open it

The movement of my hands creates a true therapy inside my head
And trusting that I will be sane after it

Living every moment of my life to the last beat of my heart,
Dropping the pencil at the end of it

Listening to guns explode off in the distance
Is it Quantico? Or have we ended up in our own war? Is it?

Feeling free on my own time, but feeling trapped on other people’s time
Wishing I could fly above the rules and rebel against it

Not really understanding what it is?
But writing it any ways, just because I feel obligated. Not being inspired by it

Every breath I take ends up as a wheeze
Not even working for that whistle that makes it

My words act like the black whole that engulfs our world
People say they understand what it means and why its there, but truly they don’t get it.