Spector

Numbers take up so much space,
all the space within my mind.
All else has to take it's place
at the proper time.

But everytime it hones in view
I lose my current focus,
forgetting all the things I knew:
pushed out of my solace.

Words can take up all the space,
most of which aren't mine,
Cluttering around my face:
sputtering a rhyme.

But when I see it coming near
my words all turn to lies:
shouting boasts for it to hear
when it hits my eyes.

Music swallows up my soul,
puts me in another time,
leaves me with an empty hole:
I've lost something of mine.

And when I see it once again,
it swallows up my sight;
I go completely blind and then
I cannot find the light.