Most of the time,
I live inside my head.
They all say I'm crazy,
But I swear that I'm sane.
I'm just a little tired,
Just a little torn,
Just a little ragged
From being dragged along.
But ideas are vibrant,
Swirling ribbons of color,
And music like glass flutes;
I love the wonderful sensation
Of pure sound and light,
Of the dreamstuff that
Conducts symphonies
And writes ballads
And Shakespearian tragedies.
Yes, most of the time,
I live inside my head.
It's like the quiet,
Dark corner of a library
Where no one ever goes,
And it's your spot,
And yours alone.
It's sacred to me,
That secret spot
In the corner of my mind,
The part of me
No one knows about.
The part where
My thoughts are
Darker and more private,
Full of the why me's
And what if's
And what now's.
I mostly live
Inside my head,
Where no one can hurt me.
I've built a fortress of iron,
Put steel gates around
My mind, against
The judges and dissenters,
The hypocrites and gossips.
I can still hear you,
I just don't care anymore
About your disapproving stares
And condemning jeers.
The newspapers can write
About the girl who spent
her whole life inside her head,
The girl who never
Really, truly grew up.
They can talk about
The girl who's best friends
Were her stories,
The worlds she created.
They can talk about the girl
Who lived inside her head.
YOU ARE READING
Poems of a Teenage Cynic
PoetryThis is my new edition to the Poems of a Teenage... series of poetry books. If you haven't read Poems of a Teenage Insomniac, it will in no way throw you off. They do not make a story in any way, shape, or form, so they don't have to be read in a pa...
