Her tune craves for him to sing
with her
not at her.

When he holds her in his hands
she comes alive. His love is
made known in the motions he makes.

Actions speak louder than words.
How beautiful it was that strumming
came easier than speaking.

She wants to be learned but not many
people have time for her complex
tendencies.

And she wants to be heard but
they have all forgotten how to
listen with their eyes.

I reached out and touched
her vibrations as he played.
I cried because I understand.

Why are weeds considered ugly plants?
They are but the most beautiful anomaly in this cruel and unfair world.
Despite the lack of water and necessary care,
they still manage to find a way through the tightest and inhospitable of cracks,
chasing the warm kiss of the sun,
and to be showered by the cleansing rain.
But when they do overcome their hardships,
greedy, unrelenting hands reach down,
and strip them from the earth,
pulling out their roots,
and throwing them away.
Then the place that they worked so hard to exist in,
is taken over by some eye-pleasing blossom.
Real beauty is not found in those that are given everything,
but rather in that of striving to simply be,
to overcome obstacles,
and rise above,
no matter the circumstance.
There is something beautiful about that fight and determination,
and nothing profound about a flower that is nourished with constant love and affection,
because they will only grow to be weak and fragile.

She's got a coke face on
like her nose is about to bleed
she's lost in her twisted world
consumed by lies and greed.

Believing that she has it all
I laugh because I watched her fall
her beauty is now lost and gone
and her sorrows she pretends to drown.

Her skull, it shows, there's nothing left,
thin skin lining bone, she's dancing with death.
She's empty and numb, her dreams falling like snow,
sleepwalking through life, she's losing herself to blow.