Wednesday, August 1, 2012

The Futile Pursuit of Sleep at 2late:00

Belive me,
I want the songs to be about someone else
as much as you do.
I swear,
I don't even think the same of you anymore.
And no matter how many times I change the radio,
I don't get to decide
what's playing on the stations.
If you'da told me from the start
that you were made up of ink,
I'da never bought another pen
if it meant never having to try
wiping you off my hands
when I smeared the ink on the page.
And like anything else anyone's ever written,
you're separated from me
as soon as I put you down to the page.
But you're always some sort of mine.

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