I like to think the sun has it's moments of strengths,
along with it's moments of weakness.

There's times when he's on top of the word,
shining brighter than ever, striking everyone's eyes.
At these times, he knows he is setting,
but the sky is his stage, and he's ready to put on his best show.

Other times, he's fragile and broken.
The sky, his cheeks, in which tears stream,
lightening the colours into soft pastels;
his complexion a blushing pink,
eyes a subdued blue with splashes of gold cries.

Even beautiful things have their days,
but even at their times of struggle,
though they feel not adequate,
dependent on perception,
there's someone who
finds them beautiful
beyond belief.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

Daydreaming always satisfied me more than real life;

the pictures in my head were always more beautiful
when they were simply figments of my imagination.
I feel I have lived many lives within my head,
and not even merely one during this lifetime.

I have climbed up mountains and dived off of them,
I have sailed across the ocean, and swum across the sea;
I have fallen in love, and believed they too had fallen in love with me.

I've jumped from cloud to cloud, and crossed the sky from day to night,
I've ran a full circle around the world before seasons could change;
I've held his hand and kissed his lips, and I've lost myself in his eyes.

I've skated on broken ice, and ran across water,
I've discovered the meaning of life,
but decided the list should be longer.

I've lived a million lives within my head,
but left very little footprints in the dirt;

I wish he was all in my head,
so what we had would be beautiful,
and would never hurt.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

When you look into her eyes
I hope you find yourself drowning in the middle of the sea.
Her eyes may be pretty,
but they're no life-raft.

You're a cliff-hanger,
flirting with danger,
and I'm the jealous rocky mountain
about to lose her last rock.

Don't hold on to me.
(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I'm ready for something real.
I'm tired of being the curtains that are pulled closed every-night.

I once gave a boy my glass heart, and he held it dear,
and then, he moved away. And I was packed inside a box,
it was labeled, 'fragile,' 'handle with care.'
It wasn't for months that I saw the sun,
and when I did, I couldn't tell the difference
between artificial, and sunlight.
Once again, he held me in his hands,
but they were rough and calloused;
the security was gone.

I was placed in a corner where I was rarely touched again,
and one night something terrible must've happened,
my smooth exterior seemed to have sharpened at the edges,
and he placed me in a bin, never to be seen again.

There's vases that hold flowers,
and there's vases that are placed in china cabinets;
I'm tired of being falsely decorated.
I'm tired of having to hold everything in,
and be expected to be the beautiful centerpiece
for everyone to glance at, and walk by.

I am beautiful, but I am not a centerpiece.
I am also a collection of flaws;
I'm translucent: all my emotions flood,
and I'm fragile; I tend to break at the slightest touch,
and I'm empty,
until someone fills me up.

But I want something real.
I don't want to hold plastic flowers,
that will never fade away.
I want to hold the beautiful rose
and at it's prime time,
though I will cry,

I can say it was real.
I can say he was mine.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

I've never been anything more than almost.
Almost his. Almost gone. Almost there.
There's comfort in 'not quite.'
You can't exactly lose something you never had, right?
(Almost, not quite.)

I have never gained, but I have lost.
I've learned that losing a winning silver
hurts more than losing a hand-me down gold;

To lose the gold is to lose a gift,
to lose the silver is to lose award;
if I put my all in something, isn't it right to say I deserved it?

Sometimes you work so hard you deserve gold,
but you only get silver;
if that isn't unfair enough,
sometimes you don't get any.

I've learned that people are not metals;
and you could put the effort of gold into someone
and only receive the silver of them;
and even still, they may not deem you the winner.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

What am I to do when the words are screaming within my head,
when the arms of the letters are engaged in a wrestling match
and they're ignoring the referees constant pleas to stop;
what is the referee to do when they're driving him mad?
What is he to do when they're driving him crazy?

The fights only exist in the ring, in the head,
for they don't even exist in the outside world.
Spoken word is nothing but dressed up thoughts;
nothing but children in costumes on Halloween night.
The referee can not exist outside,
neither can the battling words;
so how is he to get any peace of mind?

What is one to do when the things he's meant for drive him crazy,
what does one do when the only thing fueling him holds him back?
How does one free themselves from themselves?

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.

The closest she has ever gotten to romance
is through the imagery placed between the words
of romance novels.

Only is it here that rebel boys fall for innocent girls;
for how long could strong arms hold shaky bones
without breaking them?

He spends his nights getting lost in the bottle,
she spends hers lost in blank pages;

Her whole life is a written story
in the little composition notebook hidden beneath her bed;
the way his hands ran across her skin will only ever be as real
as the way the pencil ran hastily across the page the next hour.

Why would a spark-plug guy like him
ever find himself at the door of a girl
who only ever loses herself in romance novels.