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
dried up paint
Published
Poetry by Taylor 