To Stone.

Fickle, fickle little words.

I like them when they line up.

I love when they're alliterative

And silly and figurative.

Fickle, fickle little words.

I can't seem to put them all together

To correspond with what goes on

Inside my head.

It's a whirlwind up there,

Sometimes.

Other times, you know,

It's a glass-calm sea.

Either way,

It's fine.

The tumult is soothing.

Like spring rain.

Spring.

You can taste it,

A lot.

Warmth in the air

That I've missed for many,

Many long months.

Sunshine and the tickling zephyrs.

It's glorious.

The weather's just perfect

Here.

For now,

It is Ohio, after all,

It's bound to change.

But I'm fond of how it is,

Right now.

But despite the glory of the weather,

People are still a mess.

A trainwreck in the making, almost.

Sometimes,

People talk and my head just goes numb.

What have you done to believe such things?

Who told those people to be so crude?

So cruel.

It's beyond me,

Really,

It isn't...

I guess a lot of people

Turn out how they're raised, really.

The stoners and the drunkards.

Perhaps it's all just a cycle.

Sometimes, when people speak,

I don't want to answer.

There is more to me than

A college-talk.

More to me than this high school student.

Of course,

People are often blinded by preconceptions,

Misconceptions, really.

So the weather is this fantastic, perfect

Thing.

While everything else,

It's lacking, right?

But it's alright.

So long as it stays a little bit warmer.

So long as there are still people worth hearing out.

It's alright.

Alright.

In fickle, fickle little words.