You inspire words within me
The way no one else has.
Is that becasue of you?
Maybe I am the one changing...
But the words come
They flow, course from my pen,
In my head all day.
The only release is to write them
Yet I find no satisfaction in them.
My hand still hungers to move
Itching to let the words out
Get them out even when my fingers pain.
You cause me to do this.
I cannot find the beauty that I crave
In your arms or your eyes or your bed
So I look for them in black and white.
Why do you do this?
What does it mean?
If you stop the games, do my words cease as well?
What happenes then?
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