I know you don’t understand me,
how I tell you Grecian myths relating to the constellations,
how the smell of books and coffee is somewhat of a drug to me,
how I drift into a eerie silence and I lose myself in a daydream,
how I strive for perfection, but never ask it of anyone else.
I worry too much about everything under the sun.
You tell me to relax, but it’s hard to tell myself everything will be alright.
And, I don’t know if this will work out, but–I’d like to hope it will.