All I can write are love songs,
Nothing’s perfect, things still feel worthless some moments, but I’m writing love songs,
Money down the drain and bills remain, yet does it matter if we’re kissing in the spring?
I hate it, but you fill my head with rhyming melodies,
Even when I’m annoyed, or feeling blue,
An embrace and I’m swimming in metaphors and major keys –
So I take a half an hour alone to stew, ’til I’m enraptured once again by you.
sealed in ink 