He writes poetry
But no one knows

He writes poetry
He writes about love
And loss

He writes about smiles
And frowns

He writes about sorrow
And forgotten towns

He writes about how lost he gets
Caught up in his own mind

He writes poetry to
And about others

But no one knows

Know one knows the depth of his soul
Because they all choose to see the exterior
And that exterior screams

Preppy
And preppy
Don't have souls

Or so they thought
Until the day he was consumed
By his own poetry

i think with my heart
and i move with my head
i open my mouth
and its something ive read

Tired Minds,
Tired Eyes,
And tired lies.

I forgive myself for that weak moment.
When I wanted nothing more than to decieve you, to hurt you.

I forgive myself, cause I didn't.

I forgive you for your lack of words, for your absence.
Cause deep down I know.

I'm sorry that I even have to be sorry..