The music beats like a trembling heart
like a baby bird, naked and ugly
fallen and trying to fly.
The pen scratches, my favorite one
spilling green blood
on the cheap white notebook's skin,
my immature secrets
into a listening ear.
I strain forward, to the east
incessantly
thinking of someone.
Maybe this obsession has gone far enough.
I thought it would fix me, be good
to think about someone else for a while.
But it was too much, in the end.
My best friend said, "A crutch
will only make you weaker.
And eventually, it will break."

Are you happy now? You always loved
being right.