My composition notebook filled with chicken scratch
Crossed out initials and mood swings on paper
The truth is I can’t keep a journal anymore
If I did, I’d fill it with optimistic hopes and dreams
Poems and lyrics I’d written about you but for myself
I don’t have time to regret words that I’ve embraced
Cynicism’s in my blood, bittersweet fuel for my veins
I’ll write your name in the sand, so the sea can wash us away

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