I wanted to write about
all of the emotions
that sit inside
my un beating chest
but perhaps I'll sit still
and ponder the demotion
of the feeling they have left

Because we don't always get
what we're asking for
and even if we are left
looking for more

We wander beside
a wordsmith
begging for his left overs
even though we don't know
exactly why we crave it

I'll just ask this?
What are we writing for?

See, because we like to fight
and the words don't
come out right
It leaves one of us
laying, on the floor

those upon the floor
see the cracks
we'd like to pour
our angst
into the ground
We're the ones
that miss all the fun
whilst laying down

So, hopefully you'll remember this
sitting on the bed,
even with your legs spread
I wasn't standing in between
your text message
to your next squeeze

I'm just going to be
mistakes you can't erase
*so easily