I write for avid readers, the few and far between,
For all those lovely women who will swell my veins with glee,
The ones who cut my inhibitions, press them hard, until they bleed,
To clear my head of clutter, for my own serenity,
To explain the interactions that make me want to flee,
Or life's ironic little touches I can never wait to see,
To try and put words to the secrets we keep,
If for no other reason, 'cause it's more fun than sleep,
Because the world's a deliciously weird and messed-up place to be.
I know that, in secret, she's like that just for me.
I write because it's the first consequence to believing.
I write because it's the first step to my own undeceiving.
I write for every audience, for every mood, for all the seasons.
There's no need to look. I'm surrounded by reasons.
For all those lovely women who will swell my veins with glee,
The ones who cut my inhibitions, press them hard, until they bleed,
To clear my head of clutter, for my own serenity,
To explain the interactions that make me want to flee,
Or life's ironic little touches I can never wait to see,
To try and put words to the secrets we keep,
If for no other reason, 'cause it's more fun than sleep,
Because the world's a deliciously weird and messed-up place to be.
I know that, in secret, she's like that just for me.
I write because it's the first consequence to believing.
I write because it's the first step to my own undeceiving.
I write for every audience, for every mood, for all the seasons.
There's no need to look. I'm surrounded by reasons.
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