I'm sorry, but I can't tell you,

I just can't evoke the words,

There's music, but no rhythm,

I feel like I'm trying to cross mountains,

Trying to prove a moot point,

And still I can't stop.

but why would I stop,

For anyone, no less you?

You think that I don't HAVE a point,

And that these are just unheard words,

but, words bound over mountains,

To the pulse of their own rhythm.

They follow up to escape your rhythm,

And your madness, it all must stop,

No matter the boundaries, seas or mountains,

They can slip through your ears, defy you,

Naught but magic are words,

No matter the point.

Still, just what is my point?

My aim, to resonate my rhythm?

Even some things are undoable by words,

And some things will ne'er stop,

Especially for one as you,

The only boundary stretching higher than mountains.

And just how long will they echo in your mountains?

When will they take point?

Do I even mean anything to you?

Hark, I define my own rhythm!

For you, I will never stop,

You will remain unheard as my words.

And still, in my mind lingers your words,

In the hills, the trees, the mountains,

Why don't you stop?

You're not my life's culmination, my life's point,

You are no sort of pulse, beat, or rhythm,

Why do I need you?

Still, I privy unto you these words:

As their rhythm echoes o'er thy mountains,

To the point where they finally stop.

(1 cookie to the person who figures out what it's about.)