Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

via: EmilyStrange

Here I am, the whore, wanting more while you’re idle to my ways. I walked the streets familiar to me, watching out for your voice echoing from the past, hidden in the corners of my mind. Here is your cage, here is your key. Here is the prisoner, here is the king. Let’s see if I can get it right this time, because my words are tired and heavy.

Kiss me once and kiss me twice, I know I’m mean and I know I’m nice. Sing the songs that made us wrong – cries and cries about it all…

And here I am, still wanting more. Here I am, happy being miserable while remaining nameless in the ambiguity of teenage letters, framing the words that I once thought were brilliant. I painted you to be the monster and I painted myself as the martyr; I’m no artist. There I go, writing the first stupid line that comes to mind.

Immobility has inspired me. I’m happy for your success. I’m happy you’ve learned to live without my presence. And I hope that I can achieve the same. Because I’ve learned the more I attempt to put you back into the corner of my head, which was once your home for so long, the more I miss you.

I must return my attention to the music. It’s filling me with glee. It’s filling and teaching me.

A heart that hurts is a heart that works.

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