I tried to open up,
but I\'m too open of a book.
I ripped out some of my pages
just so you could have a look.
You frowned as you read on.
It seems I\'m not your favorite author.
I asked what I was doing wrong.
You\'re not like this with others.
I\'m not very proud of my work.
It\'s too messy for my taste.
For perfectly good paper,
you must think it\'s such a waste.
I apologized a lot,
but that alone would not suffice.
I tore out a few more pages,
but I\'m writing on thin ice.
I don\'t know what to do.
How will I write again?
I want to write something you\'d like,
but I don\'t know where to begin.
There\'s a lot of crumpled paper.
I\'m feeling a little unsure.
If you don\'t like my story,
I\'ll be more and more insecure.
I think I\'ll keep on writing
until the ink in my pen runs out.
My story\'s become so diluted.
I don\'t remember what it was about.
I\'ll play and play and play pretend,
fall into your fantasy.
I\'ll rip and tear and bleed again
if that\'s what you want to see.
I\'ve done it so many times over.
I forgot my own personality.
I\'m nothing but a filthy fraud,
and I\'ll become what you want of me.