When she comes out too early, is she hoping for attention?
She does not get it, nobody ever says "the moonrise is so beautiful this evening"
She is overpowered by her rival everyday. Every evening, every morning.

Sometimes she puts on makeup, an orange hue
An attention getter, these are the only nights we talk about her, create gossip of her rare beauty

There is a side we do not know, she holds mysteries the world may never discover
And her secrets, dark and alluring
Yet she attracts no visitors, the era of investigation dead and gone

Will she ever feel the love that her dear mother receives?

Does she cry when she is gone?

Would we even notice her absence?
She can't even look away from her ignorance, always facing her demising audience
If only people would pay more attention. Someday she may just disappear to gain revenge

And then what?

Living in a state of confusion
Is quite the same as a nightmare

Standing in a place misunderstood, that cannot be understood.
People that have no faces, faces that have no meaning
Buildings that cannot be remembered, memories wishing to be forgotten

A cloud that festers, growing and bulging like an ugly cyst



... I just wish I could understand again
Take the darkness away and reveal the lightness I once knew

Shall I go all life without you, wondering if I will be able to breath?
  The way you make things easier
    The way you make things optimistic
      The way you make things harmonious
        The way you make things happy is what makes my heart beat
Is what makes my brain function
  Is what keeps me alive...
Shall I go all life without you, wondering if I will be able to breath?

In every way, they are forgotten
And we under think their power, their purpose.
We seldom ponder what we would become without them,
And never stop to thank them for what they have done.


Mother,
     Thank you for taking my temperature via forehead
     For stirring my Mac and cheese
     For washing out my clothes' stains

Father,
     Thank you for changing my diapers
     For versing me in ping pong
     For writing down my painting's names when I could not spell

Lover,
     Thank you for rubbing my back
     For holding mine in yours
     For loving me tenderly

Friend,
     Thank you for braiding my hair
     For painting my nails
     For grabbing the tissues when need be


I presume mine becoming frail, old, and flimsy
What will we become in this aging process?
I doubt we will mature like fine wine or expensive cheese.
Ridden with disease and pain, we will fall to my sides. And no one will be thanking us anymore (not that anyone ever did), because we will be nothing.
Do nothing.
All the knowledge, will power, exercise will never change the **** outcome.

Someday we will stir our daughters Mac and cheese, or remove her stains from her shirts, and someday she will do the same for her daughter.
Yet this all must die someday,
There will come a time where I can no longer stir the boiling noodles on the stove,
No longer shred the brick of cheese from the fridge.

There's not a ****** thing to do but wait.