Inspiration is a hard thing to come by.
I sit in my room and I think of you, and I think of the ways in which you picked apart my things.
One by one you collected my CDs.
You took my books with no intention to read any of them.
I think of my clothes, and the way that they fall across your body, and how you look better in them than I.
Why.
do I do this to myself?
You come into my home and eat my food, you ***** my dishes, you make a mess of my floor;
littered with throw pillows you're too **** lazy to fluff.
Just because throw is in the name doesn't mean you actually do it.
You don't throw things.
You just don't.
Throw me around again.
Break my dishes over the counter after you dump your dinner on the floor.
Rip my clothes up as you say if you can't wear them no one will.
Burn my books that you never read anyway so those words will never reach your heart.
Crack those CDs and may their tunes never reach my ears or yours again.
So I'll sit in my room.
I can still hear you crying in the yard.
But I'm not coming outside.
Inspiration is a hard thing to come by.