I bought a bunch of wooden soldiers.
I bought them from the store.
And now a hundred tiny soldiers
guard my bedroom door.

So if you're a scary monster-thing
who wants to go to war,
my bedroom door is open.
I'm not frightened anymore.

If we could PVR our lives,
We'd pause at moments
Of delight;
Rewind when memory's
Not quite right;
Fast forward during
Times of strife;
Hit mute if we get too loud,
Reboot when we act too proud.
I've moments like
A satelite stream
Of unseen waves
Directing themes
In 3D pixels,
And onetime dreams.

Honey, I know you and I will never be,
So I keep my love in my fantasy.
With dragon tails and daring males.
With gorgeous girls and shiny pearls.
You and I,
will touch the sky.
The earthes will quake
and kingdoms will shake.
Our love will abound,
With no one around.
We'll thrive in my mind,
Where No one in unkind.

Sadly this dream won't last.
This world moves on too fast.
You'll never know,
And I'll never show.
I'll just sit here idly,
Living in my fantasy.

I want to run.
        Run with all the force and might my frail body can muster.

        Run.
        As my chest heaves with it's last ragged breaths.
        My legs burn with all the intensity of fiery Pompeii.
        My feet bleed from the jagged rocks and thorns that have worn their way through my soles.
  
        But I don't care.

I Just want to run.
        And ONLY when my body collapses,unable to move another muscle, will I be content to rest.

        Until I gain enough strength to Run again.

Opposites* attract, but we're one in the same.
Brown eyes meet green, saying words our mouths won't.
He nods like he understands and I almost ask him to explain it to me.
Almost, because I nod like I get it too. I don't though
It's clear to both of us how blurry all of this is.
It's easy to see how hard it is to understand.
It's nice to think how bad it could be.
Its odd how normal it feels.
Though it couldnt feel more right to be somewhere so wrong,
I love that I hate to love everything about us.

dancer of the clouds,
ink of dream,
as if the sky, hushed
and utterly forlorn,
turned a pirouette.