I was listening to The Decemberists- The Engine Driver when I couldn't help but write this down
NOTE: This is not the actual ending to the song.. Just a spin on it that I was compelled to jot down.



And I am a writer,
Writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones


But my bones turn to paper
And all I end up doing
Is scratching you deeper
Deeper into the pillars
That pillars that support my soul
My soul
I've written so many pages
That my bones turned to paper
As if you were to ever support my soul
But I spose that's one thing about paper
It don't support much of anything
I let you crumple me
I turned you to paper
Guess my master plan to rid you from my bones
Backfired a little
For now I'm stuck in a crumpled heap
A crumpled heap
Because that ****** paper
Couldn't ever make me whole
Me whole