We could have baked the best brownies in town,
ones' filled with warm gooey love,
or cooked the best cake around,
so that people would think it came from above.
We planned on making a flavourful omelette,
which would satisfy us for years,
with colored foods of green, red or even violet,
anything except our tears.
Our plans built up like they often do,
holding us down like a chain on our legs,
eventually our plans fell through,
I guess we waiting to long and became bad eggs.

Turn on the news and what do you see?
A dead child, and overflowing seas.
Go outside and what do you see?
A beautiful sky and peace with the trees.
Let me sell my joy in life,
to watch others live in strife.
Or I could take a step outside,
and realize what it is like to be alive.

Why is it that every time I finally get it within my grasp,
it slips away like water through a strainer.
So close to what I need, desire, admire,
willing to drop everything for that one chance,
but every time.
Every God ****** time,
it slips away,
out of my hands,
onto the floor,
where it crashes; painting the floor with my failure,
over my other fresh coat of dreams.

I'm afraid to get old like you,
watching you die has had its effect,
becoming incoherent and without a clue,
living life as if a defect.
You once were so young,
so powerful,
so strong.
Now you lay in bed,
needles in your arms,
everything flying over your head,
thinking you may as well be dead.
I don't want to become old like you.

I cannot get anything down.
I squeeze and suffocate,
choke the words out,
waterboarded with books,
until there is some water in this ******* drought.
Blame it for the lack of ingenuity,
for the life-long ambiguity,
how I cannot get my message out,
no matter how much I scream and shout.
The more I write the brighter I burn,
but like a fire I go out,
forgetting everything that I learn,
lost in the smoldering embers of doubt.

I can't say what I want to you,
because it is held up in my chest,
I want to scream and let it out,
but I fear that is not best.
They always say never show your hand,
for a modest man is admirable,
but now I must make my stand,
and put myself all in,
by telling you that I love you.
It is not just a love that you see in the flicks,
or the type that you read in the books,
my love is like a thousand bricks,
landing upon your head.................

**** the formalities. **** the artistry.
There is no art in love,
there are no metaphors,
similes,
onomatopoeias...
There is only that unheard of force which keeps me going,
the battery to my soul,
the engine to my heart.
There is only that unheard of lift when I hear your voice,
it flies me above the clouds,
letting me see what I can be.
The only art which I can see,
which involves loves beauty,
is the masterpiece that the lord made,
when he graced us with you my fair maid.

Tie that noose around my throat,
and push me off that ledge,
watch my neck snap as I hang afloat,
and make a personal pledge.
The audience perks up,
you let out your howl,
decimating my name,
and putting me to shame.
I will never be like the man I see,
I am different and I am me.
This man has done acts of treason,
from adultery to lying,
all for no reason.
Did we not give him love as he had needed?
Did we not give advice that was never heeded?
Yet he threw us down and turned his back,
backbone and morality he does lack,
I will destroy his name before I destroy his life,
because I am his love, I am his wife.