I can't live inside the lines I edited to make this flow just right
And he isn't just a character born inside of a poem I was asked to write
He didn't have flowers in his hair or crystals in his eyes
Actually, he had crooked teeth and a convincing smile laced in lies;
I remember his presence unfolding a shadow of warmth all over me
But then he left me with these reoccurring dreams of drowning myself out at sea
I once talked to a boy who said that words are weak because they are not a substitute for feeling
And smearing black-ink-pain all over a white page is not a form of healing
So this is a blunt description of what he did
Honestly, I was just a kid
But even then I knew that he hung that rope far too quick
And from that day forward my mind was sick
Somehow this is still so hard to confess
But he saved me from being substance-less