My writing is not always done to ensure you are listening,

That you are here, that you at least try to understand me

It is done seldom for myself

But when it is done,

I sit in a bubble made of calm chaos,

Blocking out the music that’s been turned up so loud,

Closing my ears to the constant ticking of the clock

Seldom do I talk to myself

Not to be heard by you, but to simplify my thoughts

The voices in my head, 

I write because I want to make some sense of them

When I don’t know how to feel,

Or what to do in a certain situation

Words typed up fast,

Or words written sloppily with a paper and a pen

My words, they make it seem obvious