Words are trickling
out of this fountain
pen that are not my own.
Plagiaristic. Echoey.
Your words forming
on my lips and fingers.
Your art, my life.
How I yearn to make
my voice the one
that is heard.
Instead it chokes
like Casey at the Bat.
It splinters like
the spreading chestnut tree.
Where I should have never
kissed you and you
never should have kissed me.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
Words are trickling
out of this fountain
pen that are not my own.
Plagiaristic. Echoey.
Your words forming
on my lips and fingers.
Your art, my life.
How I yearn to make
my voice the one
that is heard.
Instead it chokes
like Casey at the Bat.
It splinters like
the spreading chestnut tree.
Where I should have never
kissed you and you
never should have kissed me.
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