Rhythm and Rhyme without a song to go by

I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. Maybe you can tell me what it is. Tell me what it is because I just don't know what to say, what do think, what to do anymore. Overreacting, analyzing, too much thinking, not enough being. What is it that I say, what is it that I do. Who knows? Who cares? It's not as if it matters in the end anyways. I know that I'm not composing, but still I speak in rhythm, speak in rhyme because that's what I know how to do, still, for now, no matter what it is. But no one now will hear my words, hear the voices, hear the calling. No one now will care to see, the things they do, they things they say. Reaction to their action, I'm not spinning a tune, I'm just spinning my thoughts, weaving the web as a complex pattern of words and rhythm without a song. No more words, nothing to see, my thoughts are now as you see them to be. Maybe I'll live, maybe I'll die, tomorrow is just another day inside. Maybe these thoughts are elementary, but in the end it's nothing but propriety. Just another thing that you see and to say that it's all, just another simple oversight, nothing important at all. Would you decide to toss me away and kick me aside, not like I mean any more than another pain from within. Watch the word spin slowly and fade to grey and brown, another day, another way, I'm nothing here now.



~Damon