I Don’t Know…

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.

 

 

 

 

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