I am here to write these simple words
to let you know I've tried.
But your daughter who cut her wrists so deep is broken now she died
Blood kept slipping out as she wanted to slip free
But don't worry now I have the answer
To why she fought to be free
She said her basterd father and wore mother
Made her feel like ****
She stade  up one night and lost her fight
with a smile  on her face
She cut her wrists in painful bliss
I  am the doctrine that she wrote to her friend and family
She told me to let you know
She hopes you rot and die
You tuck away her smile
and broke her shattered heart
so go to hell and I would say I wish you well
but that would be a lie

The future is a movie.

We sit in darkness
before a blank screen,
worried and uncertain.

This is our movie
and we know that
we don't know
how it turns out.

Will we be happy?
Will we be together?
How can we make it
happen as we'd like?

Separated by distance,
country and age,
we have to write
this script together.

No one will see
this movie but us,
yet it must be
perfect as a
a technicolor dream,
perfect as this
deep attraction
that we feel.

Only we can write it.

We hold it in our hands
like a crying newborn.

What does it require;
how will we know?

Whatever lies between
the now and the then,
I'm holding out
for a happy ending;

how about you?