Tonight, we live like kings:
Hijack the prison and break out our dreams;
Kick off our shoes and rip our jeans;
Sing until our lungs burst at the seams.
Tonight, we are wild and free:
We’ll climb up skyscrapers and then ride the breeze
With our broken wings.
Tomorrow we’ll be damaged teens,
But tonight, we live like kings.

THE POET IS AWAKE AT NIGHT
HER PENCIL SPEWS OUT PAIN AND FRIGHT
A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP IS OFTEN RARE
WAKE HER TOMORROW IF YOU DARE
THE PAIN IS RAGING, COUNT TO TEN
ERASE IT ALL AND START AGAIN
A FEW MORE WORDS, YOUNG LOGOPHILE
THE TORMENT ONLY LASTS A WHILE
THE LYRICS FROM HER SHATTERED HEART
THE SEAS OF DULLNESS SEEM TO PART
HER BODY AND HER HEART GROW COLD
SHE HOPES THE AUDIENCE IS SOLD
THE POET IS AWAKE AT NIGHT
HER PENCIL SPEWS OUT PAIN AND FRIGHT

I love your brown eyes, but your lies aren’t white.
Your lovely pink lips sink into the black night.
Your whispers turn me red, but the colors aren’t right.
I love your brown eyes, but your lies aren’t white.

Queen of hearts, atop your throne.
Who stole your tarts? You’re all alone.
No one to hurt, and no one to love.
Wherever you flirt, death will certainly come.

House of cards, but no one’s impressed.
No knights or bards, for you to distress.
You broke all those hearts, but they weren’t enough.
Now you’re breaking apart, and I’m calling your bluff.

A beautiful palace, for no one to see.
The whispers of Alice, “You’ll never be free.”
So young and so restless, alone with your head.
Alice is headless, but you’re truly dead.

Poetry grows as a function of pain.
Organized anguishes conquer your brain.
Brilliance is a burden so rare,
You can not ignore it, so it, you must bear.
You will not sleep; no, you’re not allowed.
You’re a slave to the page til it’s all written down.
The night is long gone, but there’s no time to mourn:
As the sun starts to rise, a young poem is born.
You lament for lost sleep as you stumble around.
Your heart in your ears is a deafening sound.
The pain has subsided, but you’re well aware
That though it’s appeased, it is always still there.
Inspiration lurks, ever waiting to strike.
It exclusively chooses a time you don’t like.
Try as you might, you are bound to the pen,
And after each respite, it comes back again.

I'm sick of writing songs for you.
What did it ever mean to you?
What did you ever do
to deserve them?

I'm sick of bleeding out for you.
Sick of losing tears for you.
What did you ever do
to preserve them?

I am so sick of loving you.
So very sick of needing you.
When all that you ever do
is ignore me.

I'm sick of looking up to you.
Of searching every crowd for you.
Of telling myself that you
Don't abhor me.

But see I think the problem is,
Even though I'm sick of it,
You're the only one that fits
with me.

So yeah, I'm freaking sick of you,
But I can't really say I'm through;
Oh what ever did you do
To me?

Darling, your eyes are a chocolate sea,
And though I can swim, they are ever drowning me.
Your smile is the sun, so perfect and bright,
And oh so cold is the oncoming night.

Darling, your words are a siren’s song,
Beautiful, but they’ll have me dead before long.
Your hair is a fire, is burns down your back;
The smoke swirls forth and it paints my lungs black.

Darling, your name is a tritone chord,
It sounds so hypnotic, but it leaves my ears sore.
Your touch is a cloud in the middle of the day,
Delicate soft, and yet so far away.

Darling, your heart is a priceless masterpiece,
Colorful and pure, but so very out of reach.
My heart is porcelain, so easy to shatter,
But when I tape the shards together, I’ll pretend you never mattered.