As light shines through my bedroom window, casting shapes upon the wall
My thoughts drift to days long past, which I'd rather not recall.
The shadows start to twist and turn, my hands begin to shake,
And as I shift to get a closer look, my heart begins to break.
No longer do I see a wall, with shadows splayed across,
Instead I'm in another time - my reality I have lost.
Even knowing I'm no longer sane, I'm not ready to return,
Maybe if I relive the past I'll have no bridges left to burn.
May you bow to no God
But live in the heart of Sadness
May you Fear no Enemy
From Without or Within
May you Grow and Try harder
Of a Babe.
May you Be.
May you Love and Be Loved and
Love harder Each Moment.
May you Die and
Die the Death of a Babe.
Would it be weird if I said I would be yours forever.
All you need to do is ask.
I would forget all my dreams and hopes,
Change them for yours.
Would it be wrong if I said I would give my life for you.
I would gladly take a knife to the heart,
It if ment saving yours.
Would it be sad if I told you I long for you,
I vision you here with me
But then reality takes over and you dissapear.
Would it be the end of me,
The end of who I am if I gave my all to you,
Would I vanish if I lived to be with you
Melting into your life.
Would it be true
If I said all I do is for you.
You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.
There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.
You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.
You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.
You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.
You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.
You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.
You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.
(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.
You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.
You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)
But you're still a mystery.