Papers on my Skull

Papers on my Skull

I used to like to write, until I wrote too much.
I used to like to write, until it was expected.

Papers, pages, leafs of white, wrapped around my heart.
Papers, heavy, stacked upon my enfeebled brain.

There is so much to write, but little to be said,
About The Great Gatsby's light, why do I fret.

Pages tighter, with the ticking time.
Pages heavier in the night, pressing on my mind.

"Gatsby was a man like me, except he did not write.
Gatsby fell to death you see, the stakes were too high."

The only way to relieve the pressure, take papers off my skull
Is to just write the words on a document, even if they're bull.