I ponder what they'll do to me I ponder if I'd be pardoned
When I'll drop my phlegmatic act And unveil the idol I've been worshipping for years My muse. My love The face that has given me butterflies Whilst fanning the flame of my creativity.
They'd often call me a writer Slamming the miniature window of my emotions, shut Mistaking my hurt fingers for skin-clad typewriter keys Which only knew to portray misery and turn symphonic cries into ink blots,
This skeleton once harboured A naive me When my thoughts were fueled By the fires of adolescence And my senses distraughted By his emerald eyes and lips so plump