Sometimes I just draw lines
Pen on paper, no turning back, no erasing,
just following the slow pacing of the ink
Familiar like the novels I gathered in my sink
I tried counting the pages got caught within the waters confines
They used to mean something, I told, I lied
Now all of my words are dyed in the same blue
My papercut fingers were stained too
How art can wrap a creator in its vines
How we want to be, fail to learn and settle for destruction
To be taken by your own construction is what we call art
My soul designed to take part
Out of desperation or decline
Sometimes I just draw lines
