He is a hurricane and blows me away. I'm trying to hold on to you, but how can I compete with that?
He is a rainbow his colours block out my shades. I try to sketch a future for us, but how can I compete with that?
He's a genius makes me a babbling fool. Trying to figure out why you'd ever want me. How can I compete with that.
But he'll never understand what it's like to count every second a blessing cos you're in his life. And he'll never stay awake every night knowing dreams will never be as sweet as you by his side. And he'll never love you with the passion that I do. Tell me, how can he compete with that?
Thought is a boat on the oceans of mind. Waves, the emotions, flow and ebb of the tide. Curiosity steers the rudder, Imagination the sails billow by winds sigh. Stars are interlect for the sextant there to guide The elements are senses influenced by outside.
My boat sails forever upon this deep blue drawn by the current in servitude to you.
Welts on my hands knuckles cut raw back is aching can't work no more. Been thinking of this losing a fight with that. Wish I had a million or a cowboy hat. Cast my nets caught nothing to eat. I'd place my bets, but the odds are too steep.
But when I see you all pain disappears can't imagine anyone else beside me in my older years. You're a priceless love my buckaroo. I never feel hugry when I can feast on you. I've nothing to risk since I won your hand. But when you're not near I'm a lost useless man, so I am.
Only takes a small axe to chop down a tree. Which one are you is the other me? Could be harder to untangle roots deep weave from what we have to who we could be. Shall we close the book now go our separate ways and wonder how the story could've played? Or do we carry on growing creating page after page trying to forget the trees from which they were made?
Your heart's a holster, your love the gun. If I'm a wanted man I'll not run. If you're gonna shoot, best, shoot me down by high noon or the light of the moon, or with a smile ..
Now *** ye filthy varmints, got a two o clock mosey.
Between steps her silence paces ripples of a memory keep me company. And I swear at times I can feel her hand clenching mine snug deep in an overcoat pocket; her breath sighing into my ear on the verge of uttering, but words no longer live there and how our bodies pressed so close our heartbeats were undistinguishable and everything rhymed.