Death of the Author

You're not sure
If you want to be an artist anymore
Cause every time
You're inspired
Singing just makes you oh-so-tired

You're not sure
If you want to make a living off the pen
Cause every time
You pick it up
The troubles all come rushing back again

I survived the drinks and the smoking
Why are you the only one that broke me

There's never been a pair of kinder eyes
There's never been a pair of warmer hands
There's never a more tender form of love
Than the one you wrote about

You're so sure
It's okay that you've been lying on the floor
But every hour's
A second guess
It's beginning to feel empty in your chest

I survived
All the tears, the goodbyes
But clearly
I still miss Mona Lisa dearly

There's never been a pair of kinder eyes
There's never been a pair of warmer hands
There's never a more tender form of love
Than the one you wrote about

I'm supposed to be the one
That's been having all the fun
Another face
Another night
It's as meaningless as life
Without you there
I hate this motif

You're so sure
You don't want me around you anymore