Why do poets write in silence?
And garner words below their eyelids,
In gutters of depths that are never quite clear,
Or rifles with full magazines in their holsters?
Are they deserving of a life so riddled,
And caramelized in rhyme and rhythm?
To charm the tales of tempests and oceans,
Cursed with the gift of describing its emotion.
That plagues the shores of their lonely islands
With no other option but to write in silence.

All of our flowers are matching
Where graceful mistakes don't happen
Swirl in the dresses we're wrapped in
Why aren't all the pretty girls happy?

How lovely it is to be lovely
How clever and cunning to have aquired such a charm
How absolutely lovely it is to hold such a power in your palm...

I'm in the wind about it
Blowing away
If I was to tell the story
I'd have nothing to say...

Why you choose to welcome it into your home
broken and wilted and hard as a stone
there'll be a place for you next to the throne
because you believed that your life's not your own
One day when we all drifted away
off to find love in a whole other place
You'll be welcomed through mercy and grace
into His home where He prepared your place
because when He knocked you opened your gates...

she's just a baby regardless of the years
squeezed up next to him they cut the silence with beers
they drink to things she doesn't understand
innocent to the fact that he has bigger plans

I read out loud to all my belongings
to give them the opportunity to live a life
to feel as if they are not just belonged but that they are beloved
so that they can move further than the confines of my walls
And walks the same streets that I behold
Because they've given me so many joys
from the clothes I've worn to my broken toys
they were the things that adorned my life
and stuck by my side when I experienced strife
so I read out loud to all my belongings