An addict with a pen. That’s all I’ll ever make myself out to be. That’s all I’ll ever know myself to be. You’ve gotten into my bloodstream, and I don’t know how to get you out of every poem I put my mind to. I don’t know how many poems I have left in me with you as my only material. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing writing without you next to me, and I don’t know how writing is the love of my life when the only thing I write about is you. They say that with every small disaster, a war turns to your muse, but who ever knew that my muse would put up this much of a fight?
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC
An addict with a pen. That’s all I’ll ever make myself out to be. That’s all I’ll ever know myself to be. You’ve gotten into my bloodstream, and I don’t know how to get you out of every poem I put my mind to. I don’t know how many poems I have left in me with you as my only material. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing writing without you next to me, and I don’t know how writing is the love of my life when the only thing I write about is you. They say that with every small disaster, a war turns to your muse, but who ever knew that my muse would put up this much of a fight?
