Up until their fateful encounter, Simon always felt quite alone.
Now he felt that he had to write her, just to let his feelings be known.
They had talked for under an hour, but her charm had swept him away.
Soon it built up inside him, Simon had a lot to say.
He derived from their conversation that she's a fan of literary style.
So he felt that he could impress her with the wit of Shakespeare or Wilde.
He would write a sentence an hour, then tear it up or throw it away.
Soon the days turned to weeks and the words of Simon had barely changed.
They felt too forced and fake.
Just how could they convey
What he meant to say.
He soon became a slave to his own words, and he strained to just understand
How a single misplaced conjunction could make or break a phrasing's command.
He always took perfection too far. "You'll die alone" his mom used to say.
Soon the weeks turned to months and the words of Simon had barely changed.
Still too forced and fake
Just how could they convey
What he meant to say.
What Simon meant to say.
It didn't sound from the heart.
It's got to sound from the heart.
It's got to sound like a work of art
If he's ever going to win that woman's heart