Baby I'm not religious but
When I put the pen to paper I swear someone's watching
and helping to guide my hand through all the terrible truths.
If there's a God up above,
well Lord knows he's seen me move this little wrist so fast
it's a wonder it didn't break in my haste to tell a story
only we can understand,
Bleeding out on the pages like spilled ink.
And baby believe me when I say I wish I could show you this
but you've smudged every word I've ever written, and there
are some things that deserve to go untouched.
Only phantom fingers trace these lines now.
I reread each poem and call out for the culprit like a lawyer,
but no one stands up and takes the blame. I think I'm alone in this courtroom.
The truth is, I don't know who I write for anymore, and that
makes my hand shake a little until something holds it in place for me;
Maybe it's the ghost of your memory, but tonight
I'll pretend that I have God's favor.