I long to write
Beautiful things
Like Shakespeare
And elegant ballgowns
Something with more meaning
Then simply feeling down

I long to write
Of romeo and Juliet
Symbolic and deeper then most see
Oh thou arent very good with writing

I long to write
Like egar allen poe
Or any inspiration i claim to love
But instead i write of the dead things
That roam through my mind stirring

Pound pound pounding
My mind is  constantly aching
She's but a young child
Cry cry crying
For attention she seeks but it keeps dying

Plays and music will not be wrote
Of the things i write
For they are not artistic
They are but a jumbled mess
Never knowing where to place
Each
Line or
Stanza

Now I'm rambling
On and on and on
She goes sad and chaotic
Whispering obscenities
And screaming repetitive words and pleas

I adore the poems and songs
That at face value seem
Like they are about love for another
When truly they ring about darkness

Oh sweet child
Your love keeps thy so warm
But it's breaking into a storm
I watch you try to sleep
Why do you weep?
Dost thou not realize thy beauty?
Stab thy heart into shreds
For i cannot breath without the
But i cannot smile when thy fills my blood with led

Sweet little girl
You have made no sense
Get on your knees and repent
For you will never be

Somebody