The doomsday clock
Three minutes before
The midnight hour

Many people believe
In a higher power

Could we be closer
To the end of days?

Life is fragile
So they say

And when
The final day
Has come

I just want a hug
I want to love someone

He said:
"let's pretend you don't come in waves of blue hair and mystery."  

Lets take these shots so you can be a bad girl for me.
And I stood there toeing a half empty beer can
with my beat up boots thinking
"what the **** dude?"

He said I want to get to know you,
I want to see if what they say is true.
I look up through the smoke and the lights and the crowd
and tell you "It is".

And this excites him. "Oh yeah baby I know what you are".

"What am I? I thought was nothing but a blue haired mystery, an enigma, a presence to be desired...",
and he leans in to me, his gin soaked breath in my ear:

"You love, are a ******* temptress."

So now I have been reduced to all damsel all lust all distress.
Those stupid princes never stop to wonder
if the pretty face in the tower even wants to be rescued.

Cause babe, I never asked to be saved.

Cause maybe I have built these walls to keep men like you out.
Or maybe I just wanted to have the chance to
invite you in on my own terms.

Maybe I just wanted to be able to escort you out.
This has never been my prison, this is my tower.
My legacy.

I love autumn.
Why?
*Because it shows that dying can be beautiful.

Melancholy's bitter touch took her breath away
and injected her windy harmony inside Depression's corpse,
Her rose bud lips paled into Autumn's dying flower,
a morose dissipation of colouring of which once lived in her lips.
Scarlet cheeks evaporated into Ivory chalk.
as its powder sprayed on her frail countenance,
Her eyes though
which once painted the delusion of happiness gave up too soon
and succumbed to Despondency's cruel embrace
excluding the small threads of faint, grey light
which may have been the possibility
of a better life.

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.