Scraping dried up paint from under my fingernails With a 2H Writing shit with too many details Its getting late
Lying down by my book Kept company by my pencils And my phone But its only decoration right now
I love it when an addiction is just decor I could be using it but I wouldn’t know what for To pick you up To start to scroll But I don’t To want to drink A glass of wine But I wont
To smoke a cigarette, to think about you... But I do
I love it when I write Because nothing really means anything Apart from one word at a time And everyone thinks it does That theres a theme or a deeper meaning That I thought about before I finished it I didn’t There isn’t Its just me talking in my head If my brain could talk Its just the shit it woulda said I find meaning in my writing But I don’t write with meaning I write with a pencil And dried up paint