Wouldyou blame me if I told you I was scared?
My speechlessness should make it
I never thought you were beautiful
until I saw you written out on paper,
the very epitome of eloquent and inspired,
exposed in a scribble here and a flourish there
(and it made me jealous).
You took that away from me
Now you write clichéd songs and beginner's poetry
instead of lengthy prose in that articulate way that I know you wished you talked in
and I so want to tell you to give it up
but they're all about me so what kind of person would that make me
and plus they make me smile
even though I figure that only half of it is true.
I've learned that most things are often too good to be true,
so yeah I guess you could say I'm hesitant.
So imagine my indecision when you sang me that song,
and begged me for the thing that I was most unable to give.
Does it make me a liar that I agreed, or does it just make a thief?
Because you give and give and give and all I can do is offer you tiniest bit of my heart
in my outstretched hand.