Sep 2011
I tear out my heart and I place it eloquently on the page.
Piece by piece, I break it down like the history channel in a documentary on the golden age.
The chunks of raw emotion show up in the form of black and blue rage.
You can’t see it through the thin sheet of paper, but you can feel it if you’re careful.
How hard is it to see how someone is feeling when its far more than just a handful.
Every feeling that they’ve had in their winding past is strewn across the page
Like blood splatter on wall left after getting popped with a 12 gauge.
Organized by line and by stanza, yet you’re blind to it all.
You’re incapable of seeing how it looks when I fall.
Yet you still remain beautiful in my eyes and that’s a miracle in itself.
The only trust I have in this world lies in my family and this pen, while you’re placed harmlessly in a frame on the left side of the shelf
As I write I feel the grip on the pen getting tight
like the damp air setting in with the darkness of night.
It is but another image that I scribble across the page,
an outlet for the increasing, on-setting rage.
The words on the page don’t get demoralized once they’re written.
They’re permanent, so stands my love for you, though six times forgiven.
I don’t know why and I don’t know how but your love is what I want and I need it now.
I can forever write these lines and build images that will remain
until I either die or they are destroyed in vein.
But my words they will forever be and scrambled within this page you can find the characteristics that are built like cement inside of me.
No matter the situation, I’ll still have the same smile or grin,
no matter what mood I am actually in.
Because the world, on the surface,
is better off when I walk along its pathways with purpose.
I feel that if I don’t I will crumble.
The point of this script is that this pen will not stop or stumble
until I run of ink and dispose of it. Use it I will and I plan to make the most of it.
It’s a joke to continue the love I thought was real,
walking together behind an impenetrable shield.
But now you’ve gotten up and left,
this pen I write with is all I’ve got left
so if you want me in the future, grab a surgeon and sutures.
Pick up all the pieces off the ground and off this page and especially my heart.
Sew them back into my body, You better be sorry, cause I’m sending you back to Start.
Piece by piece, I break it down like the history channel in a documentary on the golden age.
The chunks of raw emotion show up in the form of black and blue rage.
You can’t see it through the thin sheet of paper, but you can feel it if you’re careful.
How hard is it to see how someone is feeling when its far more than just a handful.
Every feeling that they’ve had in their winding past is strewn across the page
Like blood splatter on wall left after getting popped with a 12 gauge.
Organized by line and by stanza, yet you’re blind to it all.
You’re incapable of seeing how it looks when I fall.
Yet you still remain beautiful in my eyes and that’s a miracle in itself.
The only trust I have in this world lies in my family and this pen, while you’re placed harmlessly in a frame on the left side of the shelf
As I write I feel the grip on the pen getting tight
like the damp air setting in with the darkness of night.
It is but another image that I scribble across the page,
an outlet for the increasing, on-setting rage.
The words on the page don’t get demoralized once they’re written.
They’re permanent, so stands my love for you, though six times forgiven.
I don’t know why and I don’t know how but your love is what I want and I need it now.
I can forever write these lines and build images that will remain
until I either die or they are destroyed in vein.
But my words they will forever be and scrambled within this page you can find the characteristics that are built like cement inside of me.
No matter the situation, I’ll still have the same smile or grin,
no matter what mood I am actually in.
Because the world, on the surface,
is better off when I walk along its pathways with purpose.
I feel that if I don’t I will crumble.
The point of this script is that this pen will not stop or stumble
until I run of ink and dispose of it. Use it I will and I plan to make the most of it.
It’s a joke to continue the love I thought was real,
walking together behind an impenetrable shield.
But now you’ve gotten up and left,
this pen I write with is all I’ve got left
so if you want me in the future, grab a surgeon and sutures.
Pick up all the pieces off the ground and off this page and especially my heart.
Sew them back into my body, You better be sorry, cause I’m sending you back to Start.
