I would tell you my story,
but then you just might believe me,
when I tell you of the cages and bars that I desperately keep myself pressed against,
of the voices that so desperately plague my dream,
attempting to leave laughter,
but fleeing with nothing less than a scream.

I would tell you my story,
but then you just might feel the pain,
of tear stricken cheeks standing alone in the streets,
screaming of hopes and dreams,
left alone in the sea of fallen aspirations and breathes,
swimming so desperately for a speck of land,
offering a hand of anything.


I would tell you my story,
but I love you and I wouldn't want you to worry,
that the mad binds of society would cease my limbs,
and tie me back from the grip of you,
that my mind might break from it's confinements
and come after you.

I would tell you my story,
but would you go mad with me,
or would you be smitten,
tackled to the ground by the essence that reminds,
that nothing is as dark as the tale
that you wish to embark,
would you reach for the positive,
in fear of the helpless bodies chasing behind you,
claiming of love and lust
but...


I would tell you my story,
but the mad man fears of discovery,
the brain wishes not to be unraveled,
and have pain and tribulation traveled,
the soul wishes not of company in misery,
but of embrace ever so gingerly,
to continue the warmth.

I would tell you my story,
but the fairytale is so much better,
dreaming of sunsets and warm sweaters,
dancing in the stars and running with the breeze,
but now,
I'm afraid I've told you my story,
and we've gone and ruined the glory,
of the long told fairytale,
of a pale vail,
and love, oh don't forget of love...
but you wanted to hear the story,
of a mislead heart,
passionately wrought and then torn apart.