Baby I'm not religious but

When I put the pen to paper I swear someone's watching

and helping to guide my hand through all the terrible truths.

If there's a God up above,

well Lord knows he's seen me move this little wrist so fast

it's a wonder it didn't break in my haste to tell a story

only we can understand,

Bleeding out on the pages like spilled ink.

And baby believe me when I say I wish I could show you this

but you've smudged every word I've ever written, and there

are some things that deserve to go untouched.

Only phantom fingers trace these lines now.

I reread each poem and call out for the culprit like a lawyer,

but no one stands up and takes the blame. I think I'm alone in this courtroom.

The truth is, I don't know who I write for anymore, and that

makes my hand shake a little until something holds it in place for me;

Maybe it's the ghost of your memory, but tonight

I'll pretend that I have God's favor.