kendal-anneWhisper

American

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~Gazing Into the Crazed Eyes of a Star Child~To paint the scene of my former life / One must first take a look into a little dusky room filled with shady sunlight, / Streaming in through dusty blinds that never actually shade the eyes.

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The Cracking of a Porcelain DollLonely there is a female, just a small girl in all punctuality / and she sits upon the curb of a lovely looking marble paved road / Only the road is no longer marble, it is dusted with the fragments of ash

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The Dominance Inside of a Real Good ManI have *often* turned within my grave to ponder of the reason why / Upon the date of my birth, you took me to your secret hide / Underneath an aspen tree within the deadest of nights

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Pressed Under PressureBlankly, fish-eyed / staring down the weighing scale / again the weight of her own

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And Thus Begins the Great EscapeWhen she first discovered the last fictitious and missing piece, that absent link that could create / That would fit so very perfectly between her fastidious reality and her dream filled escape / That piece was what filled her with the alluring thoughts of setting the diamond edged blades aside

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Withstanding the Time of Alabaster Whites and GreysThe beauty of youth will forever belong at your side, and therefore it will stay / Even after the hairs upon each of our heads begin to glow like a white halo ray / After it has turned from the fairest of golds to whispy alabaster whites and greys

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The King and Queen of RomanticismThrough the masks and obscured within the lies, lays the truth unsaid in which all despise / Too much had been appraised, and much was fitfully un-right, so vastly dark within folded light / He was King, and she forever his Queen, still they hold each others hands, a thrilling vice in which they teamed

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~Hello~ Mika~Goodbye~In Truth; / Should it matter what we really are? Or should we let our *true* colors shine? / Being held alive, but only in a straightjacket, learning you are bisexual?

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The Missus of True Misfortune"**My** **dahling**," ... / That is how she always will begin, with a lilt to her speach / Her words slurring together as if she's been ******* on the bourbon from your private store

38

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To Hold the Hand of the RiderShe sits alone, mostly. Rolling within the rank sweat and smog filled room she calls her "home" / Black and white, black on black, white on white. Crisp and clean, yet muddied with her emotional tolls / Gangly legs lay crissed and crossed into the apple sauce, folding in and bent at the knees

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