A girl about seven
Sits still - full of doom
It's 2 in the morning
And she's scared to leave her room

A ghostly girl with bad intentions
A skeleton made of gold
She filled the air with a cold infection
And let the people mold

They didn't believe her when she was small
So maybe now they'll listen
A ghost haunting the walls
Of a place she once called home

In the bliss we sang our song
Under the fading sunlight
Against the tree we stood holding hands as words left our lips
Words killed the silence, lyrics spoke our heart out
Strings of the guitar that you plucked with your fingers
Did spread love all around you and I

We walked under the light of the stars
In the Coloradian winters you and I held onto hope
Even when eyes couldn't see what was ahead
A creek or the edge of a cliff on which we walked
It was only trust that let us see the sunshine

If only you are to wait and standby
As I find the courage to say a few words that I have been meaning to say
A heart beats those words as I take a breath looking at your face
But only if you could hear my heart beating
And the silence that surrounds me in the dead of the night

theres an unrest about my
head
about my
skin
a buzzing in my
lungs
in my
knees
a longing in my
fingers
in my
heart

Happy*
Happy
Happy
H a p p y*
Maybe if I say it enough times
Or if I crack enough smiles
I might start believing it
And stop spitting out so many lies.

(a.d)

so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"

The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"

And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"

Sweet gentle daughter of dreaming blue eyes
Reflecting visions from some distant sphere;
Untainted by nightmares of icy fear,
Nor saddened yet by fate's mocking disguise.
Unopened book of fickle tomorrow,
Not certain of how future may unfold,
With hours of lead or hours of molten gold;
Unenlightened yet by unknown sorrow.
Sands rush through the hourglass of wasted years,
While breaking our young hearts with shattered dreams.
The clock of life wrings disappointed tears,
Unhampered by our plans and clever schemes.
Beware grim reaper swinging ***** blade
Who mocks thee as childhood days slowly fade.

**~Hilda~