I can feed you lines so beautiful,
much like your eyes in May.
With your lines and lies, this is doable.
Those blue eyes caught my attention like abusing pharmaceuticals.
Filled with wonder, relapse, questions; I knew you would help me decay.
You helped to write a line of my life so beautiful.
You kept me used and used yet said I was unusable.
A bag of illegalities was a present on Valentine’s Day.
You cut the lines of my life on a mirror and said, “they’re doable.”
The uppers and downers left me drowning, as usual.
Your eyes changed from the clearest of blues, to the darkest of grays.
The lines you pieced together stopped spelling “you’re beautiful.”
A downward spiral of lies made me utterly delusional,
like the time you said “these pills won’t hurt you, babe.”
Was ruining your written lines of life so easily doable?
Every glance at your dim eyes, the truth was irrefutable.
The lies were piled up like old cigarettes in our ashtray.
The lies on lined paper were so damn beautiful,
and quitting those blues, those pharmaceuticals, is hardly doable.