you have these words drifting around your head, whispering when you're trying to sleep.
and they're poems, because all you really have is your poems.
and you don't know if you want to make stories out of them, because in the end, they're nothing. they're just you, the shards of your heart that chip off when you laugh or cry too hard.
they're nothing but nonsense words, consonants and vowels pieced together like a puzzle that fits, almost.
they're nothing but daydreams and doodles, and star drenched thoughts about what if would be like to live in the sky.
but if you don't say them, they stay there. and they stay and stay, and fill your head until you feel like you're about to explode. you have too many words and not enough stories, and that hurts your head at 2 AM.
they're poems of nothing, the words you have to doodle in your margins in the middle of class. they're part of you, one of the worst parts of you, but they're there.
they deserve to have stories written about them, but you're not enough for that.
so you just let them loose.
