I’m done looking for Mr. Right
He doesn’t exist
I’m tired of this fight

So I’ll go on my merry way
I’m the master of my day

No one to report to
No one to pretend I care
It’s all about me
It doesn’t have to be fair

So I’ll stay alone
With me, myself and I
I won’t shed a tear
I’ll never again have to cry

If I could be a color I would be a crimson red
painting hearts with my quill feathers
while dancing playfully around your bed.

If I could be an angel in your dreams
I would float you gently on my cloud
softly rocking you with my wings
so that you know you're safe, and sound.

If I could be a song of love
I would sing it just for you
I would sing it every day --
so that you know I love you too.

I call out your name from another room
but your mind is trapped inside the color blue
I want to pull you out of shattered glass --
from all that haunts you in your past  
you are here but you're still there
where bombs, and blood are everywhere --
lost in the color blue while you're
wandering from room to room  
you are trapped inside the color blue
I keep searching for an open door
to tell you that you're home from war
you are here but you're still there
trapped inside the color blue
but, I keep searching from room to room
forever, and ever until I've found you.

i kissed you a kiss of
see you soon
and i'm gonna miss you;
you kissed me goodbye.
i soared away naively,
gliding on metal wings and
the lift from my own lovesick heart.
it took me months
to understand the sadness in your eyes
and that i was the only one who didn't know
i'd never see you again.

i used to write poetry
about not talking to you for the weekend,
how the words bottled up inside an hourglass
the seemed to stand still
now time flies
and weeks pass while you forget me

i used to write poetry
about sleeping through sunshine
so i could stay up with the stars
worshipping you
now the moon rises
and i fall asleep in an empty bed

i used to write poetry
about star trek and bad ***
with words that rhyme with ****
just to make you laugh
now times have changed
and the metaphors aren't funny

i used to write poetry
about the beautiful, twisted mystery
that you were to all of the world
except for me
*now the pages are blank
and i don't know you at all anymore