My Wandering Days are Over

The quiet kid in the backmost seat
He speaks his mind, he voices all
We are underneath his thrall
My wandering days are over.

It's not an act of supreme will
He hasn't broken down the walls
The storm has passed
My wandering days are over.

I am scared to think that in less than 15 hours, I shall have nothing more to do in my university undergraduate career than fix the errors in the dissertation. Who stole my 4 years of university bliss?

I don't want to wander
From the marked path
But your pregnant silence
Makes me wonder
If there's anything
For me out there.

Alphabetical
Spell my name
In the sand
I stand
Heart aflame
Dirigible
Carry me
Higher and higher
Till the setting sky
I see.

A tired smile
For a worn-out joke
A world afloat
On a little rowboat
And sheets of cotton
For dreams

Bold Slubbergudgeon

Quiet drunk on a one-way street
Who is it you stumble off to meet?
The zealous highwayman, the local choir
They will sing sweet music, and eye you there
Gutter man, with a guttered stare.

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Carribean Minimalist Gem

Sick of the ugly ugly. Gone for the new.

But alas, lost commenter, and counter in all likelihoods.

I dreamed a dream last night
You held me in your arms so tight.

I am getting sick of waking up at about 1-2 AM with some fair-to-mint lyrics buzzing in my head. I would write them down, but I'd have to get up, turn the light on, and puddle around for a few minutes finding appropriate equipment (my book dedicated to said purpose is seemingly never aroudn when I want it). This activity, followed by the excitment of penning muse to paper (and any additional thoughts that follow, would result in an awakened me. Sleeping time is at a premium, what with Honours Dissertation just handed in, and exams thrusting their scantily clad legs around the crumbling plaster walls of next week, I have an argument with myself, that I just cannot afford to lose the 30 minutes of sleep that musing would cost me. While this is true, and I tell myself 'I'll remember it in the morning', all I remember in the morning is 'Ill remember it in the morning'.

Stupid brain.

As such, I am hoping that it is still lodged in my brain, waiting for some other muse-filled night to reappear (hopefully with pen and paper handy and sleep not being such a valued commodity).
Dear muse, return either:
1- during daylight hours when a break from study is much-saught
OR
2- next month or later, where that great being called free time doth dwell.

Once again we recreate the good times
On our blank canvases
We are picking up the pieces
We are running round in circles.

It's not a trifle to hear you laugh
To see you cry
If you'll get to wipe
Away those tears dear
I'll see about some coffee.