A wise man once said that to me simply because i was fourteen and couldn't have possibly known what love was or at least not of the love that merited odes and immortalization.
it's like giving up too much of what you don't have to fill a blank canvas how could i have possibly known what love was at fourteen? I did know it or I knew enough to write you stories.
these are the verses written by my own frustration— this is my music whether you hear it or not. and all I could ever dream about at fourteen was one day getting stories in return as a token of total surrender.
at fourteen I knew more than to just trust talk. I was in love but how ready and willing were you to fall into writing me anything?
you don't write me love poems because you can't feel with words yet. you could say you'll write me a thousand verses, but your honey sweet talk isn''t real until it hits the paper.