Tonight when I sleep and go away
I will not think about her
I must turn back to my dismay
I cannot pick petals off the flower
And ask it selfish questions while plucking what makes it beautiful
I hum the blues and tell myself its dutiful
I will eat the bitter feelings just outside The Angel's city
Because I'll write you x amount of poems but I'll never tell you that youre pretty
I'll never tell you that you're beautiful
or that I notice your polished nail right down to its cuticle
I try to see the bigger picture but the view is full
my efforts are few and dull
so I'll put up a cubicle
I had the saddest thought where I'll run out of time
