I hear the tapping typing of hundreds of fingers,
On worn out keyboards,
Their faces are blank; worn smooth by years of academic regurgitation,
The keyboards, that is,
As the hundreds of fingers fly towards a future outside.
There’s nothing to write,
For the first time,
I have nothing left to say..
I was dealt a hand and I bet the house,
I watched it all fade away.
There’s something out there for me,
Something that will make me feel okay,
I know it’s not the things,
I keep running to these days.
I’m scared to be so honest,
I’m scared that you can tell,
I know you see me struggling,
From your own much different hell.
I want you to be proud of me,
Because I’m so proud of you,
And it feels like fucking ecstasy,
To think of the things that we can do
I get my shit together,
And things actually turn great,
It feels like it’s been forever,
Since I’ve felt optimism,
In the place of self-hate.