Pressed flowers
Forgotten in the pages
Of the that book
Oh what was it called
But anyway,
That book is sitting
In my father's bookshelf
Somewhere between
A history of the civil war
And an encyclopedia from 1949
It is lost in the depths
Of my mother's bookshelf
There the book with the pressed flowers
Covered in dust and memories
Waits for me to recapture the lost moments
Collecting and absorbing the words
And ideas trapped within the binding
Lost flowers, pressed in time
Lost in the pages of my childhood
Bookmarked, forever.

Maybe it was the way the syllables rolled off your tongue and into my ears
Or the way I always wanted to rest my head on your shoulder
It could have been how differently we encountered the same world
But yet how much of it you wanted to share with me

It could have been the night we didn't sleep, and told stories
Of fabricated happiness, a wealthy expression of the mind
It might have been the time you wrote me a song, but
Refused to share it with me, but told all of our friends

But I think it might have been the time you said me name,
And didn't walk away

Here is to all the cynical people out there
Who grew up in homes filled with sarcasm instead of love
Here is to all the people who grew up being happy
But ended up feeling ****** over and misused
Merry ******* Christmas, and another sad year.

You will find me entangled amidst the soul of my lady love
Arms outstretched, reaching for that sharp, biting breath
Listening to the sounds of that wonderful thumping life source
The slow thumping in her beating chest makes my heart race
As she smiles, she takes my breath away