I wrote a song the other day
then tossed it aside, left to decay.
I grew tired of writing
and bleeding the words
that spoke of you then of me.
There was never an "us"
just broken trust-I'm sick from waiting-
this shouldn't just sit, and stew and strengthen,
when there's havoc to wreak.
You were the words I'd choke on
but never stop saying.
I was the paper; you poisoned my skin.
Only recently did I realize,
to be rid of the memory of what could be
between you and me, I'd have to
toss aside my own pride;
The paper you wrote on-
the passion that died.
Now my words sting of acid-regret.
With a promise to look forward
to someone who'd let the void fill up
with ambitious infatuation.
And a promise for inspiration-
to be a muse for my pen.
And the colour that stains over
what was done-what was said-
And the Music
of your mistakes.
- ► 2010 (21)
- ▼ April (9)