You became too many things to me
All at once
Then i got tangled in the idea of us
Not knowing you were on the fence
Emotions do funny things
Like pinning me down, making me helpless
The pain was sweet but the results weren't
I did love my sore wrists
But not my sore soul
For now you've ruined the game
By saying you don't play
Then playing it anyway.

An artist needs a muse
Like how the suicidals need the noose
Feelings feeding the fears
And fear feeding the tears
Round and round
Its how the carousel the goes
Never really getting anywhere
The choice is yours to get on
Like how the poet chooses his quill
But what you pour on the parchment
Can never be choreographed
Cause the heart will bleed on its own accord
So spoiler alert to the suicidal artists
Your muse will be your noose.