I only write what I feel, and I feel everything I write,
All of these things tend to keep me up all night.
Tossing and turning about things I don't understand why I feel the rush of it all,
Word after word, my heart seeps more, lost in your words, enthrall.
They're not only poems, why can't you feel them pouring out like they do?
You read and toss them aside, but they're all about you.
My hands tremble and my tears soak the paper until the word are only blurs,
I want you so much, but you'll always be hers.
My words mean so much, but you'll never understand it quite right,
So I wrote this one for you in all the spite.
The things I write have life but you'll never give them a second glance,
This will surely only turn out to be a hopeless romance.
