There is a poem in my head that I can’t get out.
I can feel it’s rhythm but I’m so full of doubt.
In a dream, in a haze, it was created.
In a cell, in my heart, it was sedated.
Oh darling! I don’t have the slightest clue,
On whether I feel or don’t feel for you.
I don’t want to crush your or my precious hopes.
Because of my overactive brain and it’s sharp angled slopes.
“What’s the point?” Runs round and round in my head.
It’s the only monster that’s not under my bed.
But with me, heart breaks are inevitable.
Because I’m a prude and my experience is negligible.
I want you to capture my thoughts and turn them around.
To convince me, that light isn’t faster than sound.
I want you to turn me into an infatuated pile of mush.
I want you to turn me into a teenager, to be my crush.
I want to be infatuated as fuck.
Because my heart is exasperated and out of luck.