If I run really fast
Why do I need to tell
If I run very far
Why is there an urge to yell
If I write a love song,
why does it need to be heard
If silence is golden
Talking seems absurd
Why is there a constant need
For approval from another
The incessant wasted worry
For words to go further
If only I can sit with myself
And be gentle and kind
There really is nothing else
For me to need or find
Nothing to be had
Nothing to be done
Nowhere to go
Nothing to become
Elusive Silence 