I’m not a graceful mover but I have my words with me,
I’m no john Keats, but I can still write to you sweetie,
I saw the way you walked up to me, questioned with your eyes?
The way I watch the world. You asked me, and I was surprised.
I can’t say I’ve been here too long, but I was wrong for going through,
I should of stopped when I was 16 the world was much simpler and new.
*** was great, condoms were cheap, and I didn’t need to dance.
I had the world under my pen, and a girl with it to romance.
I’d push the ink and like that I had a life to show.
With love that would guide me, with a place to go,
Now I have three sets of stairs to my make way to my room.
One for each year of memories that I have lost.
One day ill move on to the fourth floor to catch the moon.
And I hope you’ll be there to question me,
You seem to be the last bit of reality
In this world of emotional debt,
I’m no great writer,
but I have you, to move the words in me.