Just sleep, the beauty of this place
will seep into your very blood;
I'll see that you aren't woken up
And it's slowed to just a trickle now
But I wish that it was pouring out
because there's so much here to write about
And all the leaves are turning brown;
They're falling from their branches
and landing at my feet,
But I can hardly make a sound,
a word of adoration, for what's surrounding me
Make it up from here, but I can't make it up from here,
so I won't wake you up, my dear
(How can I find my way out?
I dug this hole all by myself
with “no more poems on napkins”
and “i left the notebook on its shelf”)
And I just want to write with everything inside