here's something:
i'm an insolent child
and a vagabond mind and i want to
find
something really worth living for.
and all those times i scribbled
down words that i didn't mean
i was being mean,
yeah,
but it seems so easy to go unseen
so hard to know
so hard to say
those few lucky words that will make you,
what?
love me more?
i once called you a whore, actually.
in writing, i scratched it down when i hated you
and i regretted it when i didn't
but it felt so real back then, you know?
it feels real now, too.
so will i look back on it like that?
who cares?
who knows?
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