Dipping the feather in ink,
He crafts a poem of love.
Every word he writes,
Is the world.
He wipes the tears away,
The ink starts to smudge.
A man made on pure emotion,
He decided to talk no more.
Words were his life,
But speaking was not.
Writing with such passion,
Writing with such love.
He tells her a story,
Of a broken, broken man.
Who gave his heart to a woman,
In the form of daises and roses.
He spoke of a perfect world,
That was just of her and he.
That this world was the truth,
That lived inside of she.
He then spoke of harsh times,
And dipped the feather again.
He took a breath of uneasiness,
And wrote the passage of love.
He spoke of crashing waves,
and a rusty cage.
He spelled out heartache,
As if he was to blame.
His desperate heart suffocated,
As the love he gave was black.
He set out on a journey of love,
And came back a man of despair.
Oh, oh, oh, oh.
His mind drew a blank.
He never knew the right words to say,
But regardless, this is what he wrote:
"Oh inside,
You feel like needles.
Woman how could you do this to me?
Oh captain,
Who is your captain?
Who hears you crying?
It's okay to cry"
