To make you notice that I breathed air the same as you,
I picked up my chipped red guitar and strummed out a melody,
Notebook by side, jotting down jointed words and phrases,
Nothing profound, nothing remotely revolutionary,
I can’t even claim they came straight from the heart:
The words just became living, breathing things,
Like all magic happens, right at the start.
But they were real. Honest. Laced with meaning.
Seasoned by fears and dusted with hope,
Wrapped up in a plenitude of good intent
And then laid before you, like slip knotted rope.
I never wanted to ensnare you.
Never believed that I could.
My self doubt offered the perfect get out clause,
And why choose me, when you have something so good?
But you were just so very unaware of my existence,
Of my ability to feel something more than what I should.
Now time has passed and I haven’t changed at all.
Still sat here living in a play on words
Perhaps that’s the saddest song of them all:
The one that is written but never once heard.



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