I write of love yet I don't believe in it anymore,
yet I still dream of love as it soothes me terrified.
I would give love if I could, but I have nothing more,
yet I still try to find it and scream it in songs at night.

I dream of love yet I fancy turning it into a nightmare,
yet men keep sleeping down their backs, anticipating for even just a passing vision of me.
I write of love only to spin it into a cautionary tale,
yet they're awake deep into the night, and I'm a book they're flipping, turning, eagerly reading.

I write of love, praise it yet I've already lost my faith,
yet I still pray for love as if it's my last salvation
I know now that love is all but a promise and bait,
yet I keep being hooked, like a tiny fish in the vast ocean.

I sing of love, write of it, dance for it, yet at the end of the day, it's all but a dying art,
yet I'm an artist starving to make it to the other side,
even make it out alive
I have learned now that love, with all its theories and truths, only breaks my heart,
but you're a new canvas I want to spill
all my letters, colors and lights.