There's a pit where my heart should be
And it'd **** me if you found out,
But I suppose there's no reason you could,
Not when the writing's this ugly.
I don't even have a doubt.
The marks that I got were accepted,
Except for the "two" in my scripting
"Untidy and dull. Short and fat,"
She wrote in perfect penman's art.
Well I didn't care too much for that.
And I watched them pass under the scope,
Fluttering dove feathers with delicate designs,
Learning what they meant, not what was drawn
In bronze or cream or scarlet masks,
Where all traces of blank spaces were gone.
But the mind learns what wasn't taught
And then the eyes can't help but see
The pretty slants of every letter and
The smooth curves between the words
That draw in the reader oh-so lustfully.
Without a care to what was written,
The mind befalls upon the neat,
Tidy, perfect, intricacy of handwriting.
And I could soon see for myself
That I lacked this very crucial feat.
And all my work became so obsolete.
My stories offered so much more, but THEY,
They had the notebooks with the colored cover.
The pages wrought to dust inside
But people tend to push that all away.
So my silken words in their ugly ink
Fell into the shelves without a trace.
All they wanted was to be seen
From inside, but now they're too ashamed
To begin the story with such a rotten face.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
There's a pit where my heart should be
And it'd **** me if you found out,
But I suppose there's no reason you could,
Not when the writing's this ugly.
I don't even have a doubt.
The marks that I got were accepted,
Except for the "two" in my scripting
"Untidy and dull. Short and fat,"
She wrote in perfect penman's art.
Well I didn't care too much for that.
And I watched them pass under the scope,
Fluttering dove feathers with delicate designs,
Learning what they meant, not what was drawn
In bronze or cream or scarlet masks,
Where all traces of blank spaces were gone.
But the mind learns what wasn't taught
And then the eyes can't help but see
The pretty slants of every letter and
The smooth curves between the words
That draw in the reader oh-so lustfully.
Without a care to what was written,
The mind befalls upon the neat,
Tidy, perfect, intricacy of handwriting.
And I could soon see for myself
That I lacked this very crucial feat.
And all my work became so obsolete.
My stories offered so much more, but THEY,
They had the notebooks with the colored cover.
The pages wrought to dust inside
But people tend to push that all away.
So my silken words in their ugly ink
Fell into the shelves without a trace.
All they wanted was to be seen
From inside, but now they're too ashamed
To begin the story with such a rotten face.
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