Some days I wither like a
Wilted rose waiting for
The wind to pick my petals,
One by one, like a morbid
Little girl -- she whistles
To the tune of "I live, I love
For naught, I live not."

Most days, I feel like
The man on the moon;
So far removed -- my
White smile set in stone.
Yet these shadows shown
Have made such beauty
Into all I have ever known.

Did I tell you my truth
Did I tell you my lie
Does it matter to you
If I keep it inside

We all get to know
These things in the end
Does it matter to you
If I only pretend

I read what you said
About writing the truth
And how
Creativity is measured
Under your roof

But here in the real world
There's no reason or rhyme
Why must you be
Yourself every time?

Sure
It all sounds good
The rules that you make
Stuck in your boxes
Lost in your faiths...

My liberal broad-mind is a tree,
each branch carries the weight
of an independent hope, fear,
anxiety and dream.
When the wind imposes,
when it whistles, howls and blows,

you can hear each of my independent emotion's haunting cries.
They cry because I've let them go. 
They're now lost in limbo - it's somewhat disturbing and morbid,
I know!
But that's just how it goes!

By Lady R.F ©2016

The Moon shines,
and it glows,
a loving light of warmth
through the darkness,
no matter how dark it may be,

just like
a pure soul
that glows as it shares
its inner beauty - its radiance
shines so brightly,
casting a shadow of security,
like that of the moonlight,
for all to embrace,
to feel,
and to see.

By Lady R.F ©2016