You pick and choose my words like dead and dying flowers,
piecing people and ideas together like misguided followers.

It’s still true that the winner of wars write the pages,
I guess that could explain why I wrote you off, a tale for the ages.

You convince me that maybe, just maybe, I’m not worth my salt,
and I begin to believe the whispers that this life is my own fault.

Emotions bleed out, it’s almost too hard to believe,
the touch of a hand, a semi-kind smile instructs me to proceed.

A blink in time or a blanket of warmth that warns like a cough in the wind,
we buckle in, hammer down, and try to predict what belongs within.

We paint such thin, whiskey flavored lies with a broad brush,
if I shrug off advice, and don’t respect myself, then who can I trust?

You’re there, quiet, a sturdy tornado siren,
silent until it’s too late, a storm of accusations and crying.

Just listen to yourself, you know the truth - the grass will always be greener,
abandon all ships, abandon all hope, there’s still a chance to make me a believer.

There used to exist between us an ever burning fire that rages,
it’s now dead and gone like the trees between these pages.

You used to tell me to “love life, and laugh at fear,”
but I never expected that it would be you, that I’d hate, my dear.