On your best friend's birthday we made love in a tent
Not knowing how much more time we'd spend doing it again
And again
And again
I'd still do it again
And again
And again
That night I drank too much and convinced myself I meant nothing to you
I wish I would've stayed convinced
But then you told me you'd love me
And you did
I wish you'd love me again

I had a *** dream
It was an innocent dream I couldn't control
I had a *** dream
A dream that went to another level
I didn't know those feelings
weren't just a dream
I didn't know I'd wake up to find
That someone'd been touching me
I didn't know I had anything to be afraid of
When I closed my eyes the night before
I didn't know that evil men
Could somehow sneak beyond locked doors
It was an innocent dream I couldn't control
An innocent dream taken to another level
I had a *** dream that turned out to be real life
I fell asleep, once again, just like any other night
I fell asleep, and woke up to the nightmare of my life
I had a *** dream
And it didn't end right

All I can write about lately is writing or thinking and it's kind of ironic because they go hand in hand... so I've been feeling like I've been holding onto the same set of hands for too long in fear that they're the only hands that have ever opened up in my direction. At least recently. Or maybe they're the softest, or the most comforting. Maybe they're the hands of the man that I love. Either way, I don't think I ever want to let go of these hands, and I think that's okay. I think it's okay to find a home and coin it your own. Why wouldn't it be?

I think way too much
and I know I should stop
cause it's bad for me
But something tells me not to
and somehow
it's like it regenerates me
like I don't need a battery
I just need some of my brains energy
And I could stay up for eternity
And I'm telling you
              
                   **it's hurting me

I keep a little notepad in my car to ensure writers safety
Because words spontaneously throw themselves around in my mind
Without a conscious thought to
But I still lose a few lines every now and then
And I can't help but wonder
Where do the lost words go?
The beautiful lines we'd love to recollect
Our own thoughts
Ones that will never be told to anyone
Or read anywhere
I wonder if they come back without us knowing
I wonder if they make up the lines that don't exactly fit anywhere else
The ones that we want to backspace
And erase
Backspace
And erase
Until they're gone again
I wonder if some things
Are not supposed to exist
Until they do
If some things just do not fit

So I write in pen
And I undo all the backspacing, too
Because I also wonder
If maybe everything has a place
And we just have to make them fit

Some things capture you,
others set you free

Like your head pounds
for nicotine
My head screams
to write feelings
While your fingers shake
for what you need
My fingers trace letters
on the back of my knee

You have an illness and would you look at that, so do I
We find hobbies with our hands and tell ourselves we're getting by

While you are out
and you are drinking
I am home
and I am thinking
I'm alone
And I am sinking
Discovering things that were better off mysteries
Slowly discovering what is killing me
                                Before it kills me
But I need it like it's been getting me high
It's my little hobby,
and it's getting me by

You have an illness and would you look at that, so do I
We find hobbies with our hands and tell ourselves we're getting by
I find a hobby for my head, and somehow I'm *getting by