Fireworks

It's curious how my brain lives

difusing worries and fears into fireworks.

People see the smoke, people see the beauty

and the words that I evoke.

What they don't see is the sulfur.

The beatened powdered core,

they don't see the wrapping eluding to more.

What comes out of silence could be anger or knowledge.

I don't know about me, but it sure is a strange thing.

I'm an unexpected holiday every year

where you see me explode, but not in tears.

You see the wise words that I've built out of others,

the conclusions pulled from angst among another.

They call me wise, or influencial, or thoughful and unique.

But they don't know it's my past stuck in a bottle, pretty and pink.

I start to speak not knowing where I'm gonna end, 

somehow I get to an old place like a friend.

A dull memory and ache or attric of strife,

I pull out the pretty recovery but not the fight.

So stop calling me wise, or experienced and unique.

Stop getting worried about my experience and how I think.

Don't you realize it's over? Don't you realize it's old new?

What you're hearing isn't phenomenal,

what you're hearing isn't wise.

You're hearing the echoing past, mixed with who I wished I'd find.

My brain is so behind, I'm now understanding ten year old me.

So don't ask me how I'm doing, ask me when it's over.

When I know or understand, where my brains been sleeping.

Sometimes it all overcomes me, heart exploding.

And I lose track of what I'm feeling, or how I'm emoting.

Cause my brain or my heart or my thoughts reboot, and remind me of old language's 

I never knew.

Reminds me of old anguish I thought was complete.

So I stare at the ceiling confused by the beat,

Go write down some verses and ponder at my dream.

Light the fireworks and set the scene.