She told me she was the American Dream,
Wrapped in a flag and singing Springsteen,
But I guess she didn't understand Gastby,
Cause she wanted the parties and the long nights,
The drives to the city and old-fashioned lights.

Even I romanticize everything,
And I'll write a song about anything,
From the shutters on my window
To a beaten chains of a broken swing;
About how I could've sworn you loved me,
And how you disagreed just to spite me.

I like to think I'm a muse
And I could make you mine, too.
Taking turns fishing for things
In a complimentary sea.
But I'm not some Picasso,
I'm not even a Daisy,
But say it’s contemporary if I start to bleed
Onto a rosary
And call it a portrait of empathy.