Those silly songs;
so sad but true
With lost feelings
of me and you

I played it on
with the tape's side A
Felt like blossoms of dawn
and flowers of May

I flipped the tape
Found side B's empty
The same thing I get
Every time you look at me

"You'll get over this."
You once confided
That's what our love is;
Too one-sided

Evert night at 2 AM
Different poems are written
Different words are scribbled
Different papers are crumpled
But only one thought she had
Yet, word can't help her convey the feelings
"Empty" has much more than herself
"Sad" is not sadder than she thought
"Broken" is more whole than her
"Hurting" ain't just bleeding just like her
And when words can't take the role
It's the blade that play with her
Every cuts has meaning
Everything is her unreleased feeling

you wake up
his hair is spilled across the pillow,
the sun slants across his cheekbone
and his breath is slow and even.
he smells like an open field
and his body is wrapped around yours
so he keeps you warm.
you think,
there is no moment better than this,
that he is too perfect to exist.
but you wake up gasping,
skin soaked in sweat.
you lie there for a long time,
in your completely empty bed.

Whatever happened to the moments
we lived for
the moments we lived from
electrifying lives
currents of passion
high voltage that knew no resistance

what do I have to do?
to feel the surge
to feel the spark
to feel alive again?

Is it in the tomes?
Is it in the songs?
Do the muses hold it in the walls?
Is it inside of me?

Searching for the switch
to send me back to passion
To make me feel charged again
to make me feel in charge again

You are not my children,
tender as you are.
You are not my lover,
though you cause my heart to yearn.
You are not my sun,
or my moon,
or my star.

I set you on this rock;
you will not make me burn.

You are simply sticks,
arranged upon the pyre.
You are clever tricks,
though you flaunt my clear desire.
You are not the match,
or the wick,
or the fire.

I set you on this rock;
To see what might transpire.

You will never be a pheasant's egg to be coddled.
You are only this: a calf led to the slaughter.

She paints a pretty picture
But all the inks run red the picture Of a ****** battle
That's going on inside her head

She paints a oretty picture
Of a girl in dress and heels
But the mirror shows a skeleton
But still she skip another meal

She paints a pretty picture
But nobody's seen it yet
It's of a shiny razor
That makes her sleeves red and wet

She paints a pretty picture
of an angel in the sky
That didn't see the point of life
And now they all whisper
"Suicide"

Now i paint a pretty picture
It's all in black and white
Our memories and childhood dreams
Still wonder why she took her life