P.S. I don't play games.

Pick my brain.
Push my buttons.
Pluck the wings off these butterflies that escaped.
Make me look like the bad guy
Cuz as much as you say I'm playin games,
I really don't care for winning.
I'll be the loser& we'll call it a day,
cuz I'd rather take the heat than run up, down& around these chutes& ladders.
Goin' at it back &forth does not float my boat,
&neither does trying to convince someone that I'm not out to hurt them.

Yeah, I'm, wishy-washy.
No, I don't want to let anyone in.
So what?
You knew from the jump that I'm not perfect,
&I didn't even have to tell you that.
Can you blame me?

P.s.
Thanks for removing my writer's block.
As much as I avoid writing about crushes, admiration, &heartache,
I guess that's what thawed out my notebook that I been preserving for so long.

P.s.s.
I don't regret anything.
The cookie didn't go bad.
That's why I brush my teeth before I feel the ache,
cuz I'd rather be safe than sorry.
I can always fill my cavities;
Just give me some time& I'll call it a lesson learned.
Just like my third molars that are growing in;
Hurts like a bitch, but they call em wisdom teeth for a reason.