When you’ve got too much on the line, it’s hard to balance

And I always seem to have a bit of extra malice

Built up in my body, are there internal scars?

Because I can’t see if I wanted to.

And I still get grateful each time I see the stars, because that means there’s no clouds in my view.

But clouds don’t crush hearts and crash bikes, that’s what I do.

And each pen is my vessel to sail to my confessional

On pages stuffed in my drawer.

And each bit of attention, its own bustling convention.

Do they think about me anymore?

There’s a gallery of things I wish I could be

But none are for sale

So I’ve resorted to stealing