The Writer

Do you want me to write you in
Dust off all your features
Make you perfect
Not that you need it
You're effortlessly illustrated
Colourfully fated for my pen

I can show you how
The world is so much brighter when
The writer gets to turn it
I'll give you wings although you say you don't deserve it
You were definitely made
For felt tips sonnets that I've kept in way too long

And I know
That paper hearts are fast to break
So don't you go
Away

Oh my god, I think you've really done it this time
Oh my god, don't think that I can make it back
But could you hold on just a little
While I sequence all my scribbles
Into novels filled with stars I'll never send
'Cause I'm essentially a writer
Who never makes it to the end

It's picturesque you're nothing less
Than a hero from a storybook or five
Think you were made for filling hearts and shoes and time
Think I was made so I could do you justice
Don't trust anybody else
To write you half as well as I

Will try
To find the perfect shade of emerald
For your eyes

Oh my god, I think you've really done it this time
Oh my god, don't think that I can make it back
But could you hold on just a little
While I sequence all my scribbles
Into novels filled with stars I'll never send
'Cause I'm essentially a writer
Who never makes it to the end

And maybe when it's over
When the final page is turned
You won't be perfect
Just be you
The boy who likes bands with stupid names and high brow views
And maybe when I'm finished
I'll look down at the image
And magic will be seeping from your finger tips
Somehow I doubt it

'Cause I'll never not believe in you
I'll always see your best
Loving you is a religion
I'm devout I must confess

Oh my god, I think you've really done it this time
Oh my god, don't think that I can make it back
But could you hold on just a little
While I sequence all my scribbles
Into novels filled with stars I'll never send
'Cause I'm essentially a writer
Who never makes it to the end