I could have gone to parties,
I sta(ye)id home to write poetry to no one.
But that’s the a-okay in today,
‘cause my stories,
my stories are on.
Yeah, for all the all in the all that,
spilt milk’s more of a sob than a cry anyhow,
and the dead-eye aim my anxieties have,
seems best broken by blatant denial
my stories are on.
my stories are on.
