i was asking you before
to discontinue your supply of poetic awakening
the ink that you're always giving me
has expired and dried two years ago
and i can never write about now.

i can never write about "what ifs",
i can never poetically execute my dreams
because i am contaminated by
our "what could have beens."

babe, your expired ink tastes bitter & toxic
but i just cant seem to stop you.
i don't ever want to stop you
i dont want to step forward.

here i am again, haunted by your memories
leading me back to the past that i have learned to seek shelter in.

you were to glue that pieces my bones together
whenever these four walls are declaring that i'm falling apart.

you are an endless pool of ink
and an endless pad of paper,
you want me to continue writing
because you said my face was too pretty to explode.

how could i step away from that?
i wish that my muscles would be strong enough to lift me away from here.
i wish i could say that this isn't about you.

i am never gonna move on from you
because the day that i do,
the day i will stop being a poet.