Hands shake with wishful anticipation,
Fingertips are numb with dread,
I sit and stare out the dirty window,
Ideas of where I’ll be floating around my head.
I wonder impossible questions,
Will I find myself or lose my way?
If the grass is always greener,
Will I be back here at the end of the day?
In the gloomy sky the trees play,
Beneath them in beautiful isolation the flowers bloom,
I can’t help but ponder to myself,
What could be better than outside this room?