When I yell at you It's hardly ever about you. I yell at you I yell at me. I yell at the mountains of things I've bottled up Waiting for an echo Hoping I don't hear a voice. In the middle of the Himalayas is a boy With a heaving chest, Snow building up steady till It's sorta solid ground. Feelings too big to be bottled. But his uncle taught him a little magic. Your backyard could be an evil forest if you're adept enough. The drizzle could be a thunderstorm if you're Potter enough Your anger could be a gift box if you love enough Have you ever wondered why dreams feel so real? I wonder why I wake up With tears down my face Mourning a dying future these days Crying at a funeral where I'm the mourned As cold chews up my toes. My chest is still a heaving mess. (If you're adept enough) All sadness is anger, real And directed And a mountain is a termite mound if I cut It into smaller pieces And ship it with a leaky heart stitched To the ends An adept magician can make a truth out of a flat earth. Laughing in a theatre where he is a lecturer And the audience are his students. You see, my uncle taught me a little magic trick That day, when he farted and blamed it on me.