Spilled Ink


We’re crossing blurred lines.

There’s no such thing as rewind.

I say this every time.

I am an open book,

If you cared to take a second look,

but i’m old school,

no nooks.

Every page is turned by hand.

I hope as you read, that you understand

my language.

I speak in tongues,

with smoke filled lungs,

confused beyond measure,

seeking selfish pleasure.

Wondering, which soul am I to treasure


is a word,

like love,


and abused.

What am I,

but a conquest,

to exlore,

to faithlessly adore,

then ignore.



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