When I was young my father said,
Be weary son of your awful head,
Filled with thoughts both old and wise,
And soft spots there for tragic times.

I looked at him and laughed away,
All worries then of impending days,
So joyous then was I the fool,
Who held fast to the golden rule.

Treat others fair so they in kind,
Would carry on with you in mind,
But left unsaid was another half,
Walk along the quiet path.

The one not filled with tired hearts,
Waiting for a gentle spark,
Of love, of joy, of precious things,
For they all hide a broken wing.

They’ll look to you to patch them up,
Longing for a gentle touch,
To grab ahold and leech away,
And leave to you a tired state.

Selfish little savior,
Cares too much for them,
Selfish little savior,
Who keeps it locked within.

Selfish little savior,
Who takes on all their woes,
Selfish little savior,
Or so the record shows.

Selfish little savior,
Who makes himself feel good,
Selfish little savior,
Who never understood.

Selfish little savior,
Who writes these empty words,
Selfish little savior,
In hopes of finding worth.

Selfish little savior,
Who always sits alone,
Selfish little savior,
Taking for his own.

Selfish little savior,
Finds meaning in the pain,
Selfish little savior,
Plays his little game.

Selfish little savior,
Who knows of little else,
Selfish little savior,
Helps others for himself.

I’d say that I love you,
But I worry in truth,
That I love you in plain-form,
Is nothing too new.

I could write about angels,
Who soar high above,
Who symbolize hope,
And feelings of love.

I could say that you are one,
And tell you it’s true,
That I think often always,
About me and you.

But I worry too much,
That it’s always cliche,
To say that I love you,
In just such a way.

So I take up a pen,
And dry out the ink,
Writing this way and that,
About what I think.

How I think you’re an angel,
Who soars high above,
On gentle white wings,
With a halo of love.

Or just how often,
Through the course of a day,
I lose all my breath,
When you take it away.

I could say all these things,
But it’s all so cliche,
So I tear up the paper,
With nothing to say.

In truth,
I speak,
To memories long a-go,
The ones I can-not see..

Those who,
Hold keys,
To my dear heart and so,
I,
Call out,
To thee..

I’m sor-ry,
For all,
That I have said to you,
Through these wil-ting years..

I think,
On you,
Sing-ing sorr-ow’s tune,
Still sadly,
Wai-ting here..

The years,
Have passed,
And you,
Are now,
Long gone..

How can I write about you fondly,
When I can’t  pen a good memory to your name?
The lies mix together with reality to mark the death of an angel and all I can say is I’m sorry.
I’m sorry there’s no love lost between the lines,
I’ve read between them all,
I beat myself up for not being able to write about an angel but the truth is I never had one to call my own,
So I’m sorry.
It feels like a lie to accent a painting,
A still-frame moment pictured in my head,
I’m sorry is all I’ve ever said and it’s fallen on deaf ears.
But how can I make anyone else listen when the words are years apart,
And I’m only trying to talk to you?
What would they say,
If they understood I was chasing a painted moment?
I’m sorry this is how I remember you.

And while we’re on the subject,
I’m sorry in advance,
That you ever had to hear this,
For giving it a chance.

But I’m sorry is what I say,
When I can’t say everything,
It’s the lie I use to paint over the truth,
With a better story.

It’s the half-truth of apologies,
Ringing hollow In reality,
You see I’m sorry is my defense,
It’s the difference between shy and confident.

I’m sorry is everything I meant,
That went unheard,
The words that couldn’t escape,
The critical mass of anxiety.

I’m sorry means listening,
To the words I didn’t say,
It’s my apology to you,
For me feeling that way.

But most of all,
I’m sorry is every opportunity missed,
Every time I wish I had the courage,
To speak a little more,
I’m sorry makes it out,
Before I even had a chance.