Spawn of Our Pen
One-Shot.
I hear you.
When you breath, when you talk, when you sing, when you sigh with those perfect lips of yours right in my ear. You're perfect, you know that? More so than I am, more so than anyone.
You're perfect because you're not, and you don't care to be. You're perfect because you're up there, for everyone to see, naked in your vulnerability but clad in tight leather and studded belts. You're perfect because you are an essence of yourself – so brief yet so desired, with only the lyrics in your songs and a few words on the page to delve into. You're perfect because all we have, is our conception of you, and we think it is Great.
You know what they do to you? They analyze you, rip you to shreds, prod the living hell out of every word rolled out by your tongue just to make some more of it, to write another story, essay, poem on. Every move that you make, every sign of you, they follow; with eyes gleaming like a hawk. You are their prey, thrust into the limelight but more isolated than ever.
We love you – on stage, in our dreams; on the computer screens you grace so effortlessly. With your black lined eyes and disheveled hair, we all know who you are, don't we? Your words unsaid filled in with wild ideas that can only happen in our vivid imagination of reality; peppered with vulgarity and sex spawned from our pens and occasionally fake blood from your wrists and affairs.
You are one sick victim. They've killed you, and resurrected an actor.
When you breath, when you talk, when you sing, when you sigh with those perfect lips of yours right in my ear. You're perfect, you know that? More so than I am, more so than anyone.
You're perfect because you're not, and you don't care to be. You're perfect because you're up there, for everyone to see, naked in your vulnerability but clad in tight leather and studded belts. You're perfect because you are an essence of yourself – so brief yet so desired, with only the lyrics in your songs and a few words on the page to delve into. You're perfect because all we have, is our conception of you, and we think it is Great.
You know what they do to you? They analyze you, rip you to shreds, prod the living hell out of every word rolled out by your tongue just to make some more of it, to write another story, essay, poem on. Every move that you make, every sign of you, they follow; with eyes gleaming like a hawk. You are their prey, thrust into the limelight but more isolated than ever.
We love you – on stage, in our dreams; on the computer screens you grace so effortlessly. With your black lined eyes and disheveled hair, we all know who you are, don't we? Your words unsaid filled in with wild ideas that can only happen in our vivid imagination of reality; peppered with vulgarity and sex spawned from our pens and occasionally fake blood from your wrists and affairs.
You are one sick victim. They've killed you, and resurrected an actor.