It's hard to think clearly through the
"That's Life!"s,
"No work, no play"s,
The "you can do anything you put your mind to"s,
and the "do what makes you happy"s.

It's hard to keep a personality through the
Ifs, buts and indefinite, fluctuating opinions of right and wrong,
him and her, you and me.

It's  hard to keep personal through the
Impersonal means of communication,
Retold stories,
and the disatisfying interactions between you
and the people you have chosen. The people
who you believed had chosen you.

It's hard finding me through all of this
you.

Effortless,
boundless,
listless
in this.

It's within the grown out roots
where the Garden Owl still hoots
Sings the melancholy song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong.

It's within the thatching of the dwelling
And a failed attempt at fortune telling.
Beyond the garden of the bugs
Beyond the magpies and the slugs

A moon was folded into quarters
Grind it with pestle and mortar
Strip it down to crater powder
Feel it till the song sounds louder

The Garden Owl sings his song
Of how the blue eyed girl was wrong
And under the brown thatched roof
The girl detests her blue eyed youth

You wore a Rolex watch
which was fake
and didn't even tell the time.

I know that isn't a crime.
Nor is buying complex coffees
but it did perplex me.

I ignore this, naturally.
But before the finale,
before you forsaked me
into the Vally of the Dead
where few did tread.
I saw the cracks.

I saw you slack and caught a glimpse
behind that facade, behind the blinks
to see that you were flawed, just like me

Still, I ignored this.
I didn't take you serious,
blind to your spurious nature.
Nothing more than specious appearance.

It wasns't till the Persecco
that I felt your echo.
And it all came pouring out,
All the more doubt than before.

Adore turns to abhor too soon for my liking.
I can't stop you if you're a quitter.
Just like I can't stop the bitter memories,
flitter by my mind.

I could stick to you.
I could wrap myself around your tightening waist.
Cling to the tiniest hairs on your
shrinking skin.

Clawing at your attention and your blue eyes
The windows to the soul
So why do I never look in?
My eyes are abysses
Your eyes are pools of independent waters

I want you to stick to me.
I want you to wrap yourself around my growing waist.
And cling to my thickening hair.
But You won't.

And when I get that pushing feeling
in my right toe,
I make you give me the silent treatment.
My abyss fills with tears
and I drown from
Sea to Pond
and
Pond to Sea

Your silence is a kind of
Grief,
From words that were left
Unsaid.
But when swept in a drunken
Heat,
The words of then are bled.
××××××××××××××××××××××××××
I know you more;
Yet, still I don't.
There's more for me to see
But keep your mouth and desires
Shut;
Do not be familiar to me.

T'is unfair for those
Who have never felt morose or
Uncomposed
To blame or shame the lives
that have been.
For it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

For a few choose to leave this earth,
But most of us are dead from birth.
For either way it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

We should salute those who do it,
For they have gone through with it.
Us here waiting, waiting.
Waiting still, waiting to get ill.
For it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

If I were to make that choice,
Do not proclaim what I could have been,
Or that you never could have seen
The pain.
'Cause you could, and you did.
For it's anyone's choice,
Leave them be.
I wonder would you be the same
If it were me?