weak wrists make the girl.

i wrote a poem on a page. read it back today. didn't get it.
read it yesterday, made all the sense in the world.

spoke about you to the world. they ridiculed me. didn't get me.

spoke about you to a certain few, they smiled and said they'd never seen me happier.

wrote again today. pressed for time.
constant constraints and schedules.
rules to abide by. all of this makes me nervous.

but you bring me back down. down to a place
where nothing else matters. a place where i can
say everything i never wanted to say. forget what
i was so excited to tell you.
none of this matters anymore.

does this make any sense?
who really knows..

all im ever sure of is that you're like urban hope.
the reason i forget to breathe in the morning.
one of the few reasons i try to find my way back home.