Zymoid

Eating away at the pages,
Singing songs, from the furthest of ages,
Writing words from lessons learned from sages,
Lost in a world all my own,
A ringing in my mind, a crystal clear tone,
It's purely my thoughts that drone.
Speaking in sentences, truncated,
Some days hurt and frustrated,
Some days melancholy and blue,
Some days, happy, I change my hue,
No time to speak it all, too many volumes,
Of all the volcano and star plumes.
Consuming words, outputting paragraphs,
Creating my own imagery of lithographs,
Like an enzyme eating away at a corpse,
Like a chameleon, changing when the scene warps,
In unrealized patterns like batik,
Waiting until you have time to speak,
I think, and I think, and think, and think,
Thousands of thoughts by the time I blink,
Pondering, wondering,
Analyzing, worrying,
About everything I've done, heard, said, and seen,
Wondering exactly what did you mean?
Sitting there, knowing I have feathers to preen,
And yet, unsure if I should fly yet,
I've too many things to discus yet.