It might as well be spring - Aga Zaryan

The thing I used to like,

I don't like anymore.

I want a lot of other things

I've never had before.

It's just like my mama says,

I sit around and mourn.

Pretending that I am so wonderful

And knowing I'm adored.


I'm as redtless as a willow in a windstorm,

I'm as jumpy as a puppet on a string.

I'd say that I have spring fever,

But I know it isn't even spring.

I'm as starry eyed and vaguely discontented,

Like a nightingale without a song to sing.

Oh, why should I have spring fever,

When I know it isn't spring.


I keep wishing I were somewhere else,

Walking down a strange new street,

Hearing words that I have never heard

From a man I'm yet to meet.

I'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreams.

I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing.

I haven't seen a crocus or a rose bud

Or a robin on the wing.

But I feel so gay in a melancholy way,

That it might as well be spring,

I might as well be spring!