a pen don't mean you can write, you're no John Updike even if you spell it right

And these times where I walk in the woods with nothing to guide,
where all I have at home are glares and a bottle
of wine
and headaches when I have never had headaches before,
you have to walk out the door.
The air holds as much water vapor as it can take and no,
nothing I have felt has been fake
which makes it hurt all the more when I have to
walk out the door.
The collection of clovers are wet in the grass. My voice has
lost it's resonant grasp on the world
and all I sing are the blues
the suburban blues.

baby I'm sorry
but I'm really not the way you saw me
cause the eyes you saw through
are a deep shade, its true, that i can't look into
without sighing.

all i want is you here, but im starting to fear
that you dont give a damn for all these catch penny tears
i've been crying.