Scared of the scared grace of your stare
I would dare, but how does one admit they care?
I'm prone to over think things, though you paint me a blank
So the gun you hold to my heart never kills.
But it does make me hesitate.
Too late, and getting older everyday,
Maybe this is a crisis,
Like the way we felt screaming out lungs out.
There's a lot I never forgot but I lack the words to share,
But it's always been there, the face and the hair.
I'm trying to be a better person each day,
But I'm a martyr with a devil on his shoulder looking for a thrill.
If looks could **** then you'd be a massacre.
My sacrament has always been la petite mort,
and the words said between.
I've managed a poem with out mentioning flame,
so maybe I'm okay,
Oh wait...