A snowflake blowing in the wind
A faint being travelling under the wintry sky
The songs of a foreign world
Landing and kissing the head
Of someone who was expecting nothing of this sort.

An idea.
Rare and complete,
In full bloom,
Premature.
For the bright days of spring have yet to gift this idea life
But it sticks still
Deep in the mind
Of the unwary girl.
An idea,
Individual and unique
Much like the snow that falls.

The stars whisper secrets of the universe
To comfort her premature feelings.
Ahead of her time,
Aged beyond years.
Catching snowflakes meant for someone else.

Sometimes,
words hit like bolts
of yellow and blue lightning.
Erupting from their
bottled container,
spattering bits of
charred glass
and gore of the
words that have been contained for far too long.
Reckless in their nonconformity
with what is expected,
what is,
and what needs
to be said.
When they spill
out of painted or chapped lips
like liquid fire.
Fire and lightning
that burns and singes
and electrifies
everything they touch.
Almost as painful
as the real thing.

I go to bed everynight trying to escape
the weight that of the world
I run from every time I close my eyes
the weight of the world
that burdens my whole existence
the weight of the world
I couldn't carry on my shoulders

Yiruma
Yiruma knows where it's at.
He speaks to us in a language everyone understands
or has the potential to
or can.
But am I the only one hearing the complexity within every fingertap unheard?
Mental conflicts
or maybe I'm selfish and draw his life back to mine
Unintentionally compare two inseparable distant lives
So maybe it's not his fingers, but mine
as I vigorously type to the beat of a thought
That I cannot even claim as my own
Call me selfish
and I apologize Yiruma
You sound great.

She whispered,
*I wish more people cared about more people.