People say that absence makes the heart grow fonder;
But I do propose a more fitting word to use!

Isn’t that absence makes the heart go angry?
Conflicts and clashes, arguments at its best.

Isn't that absence makes the heart go weary?
Your warmth is what I need in this tangled mess.

Isn't that absence makes the heart go crazy?
Only with you, my mind can easily rest.

And yet, our love is still a pretty wonder;
I am yours, and you will always be my muse.

His childhood room sits atop of a minefield;
With words berating against the walls;
Breakfast comes in a belittling bowl;
As the lieutenants loiter within the halls.

Stand by, move cautiously;
You might set something off.
Keep close track of your every move,
Perfect the execution or they'll disapprove.

Dare not to cry, keep those fears hidden;
Showing weakness around here is deadly forbidden.
Lost in the field of verbal grenades;
Thrown by those meant to provide him shelter.

It’s been 34 years since the war has happened;
Yet these minefields still exist somewhere in his mind;
I think his parents may have forgotten;
He wasn’t a commander, he was just a child.

I daydream of yesterday, its people and memories
Seasons used to be great, filled with no worries
Others embraced me as I am, the life of the parties
I get what I want, ask no apologies

Cracks suddenly appeared, leaving me lost in agony
Had to leave that world, jumped from country to country
Everyone questioned, spun their own theories
Watched it all crumbled down, what I built for centuries

Yet I am constrained, amid the vast possibilities
Still trying to look back, bygone fantasies
I have yet to let go, the pieces and uncertainties
A new galaxy awaits, filled with boundless opportunities

An artist skilled in silent resolve
The world is mesmerized by your majestic show
Countless watched as you conquered those conflicts
All they saw was the greatness as you grow.

An artist skilled in silent resolve
The world is fooled by your flamboyant show
Beneath the surface, scarred and beaten
Unaware of the bloodshed braved in the low

An artist skilled in silent resolve
The world should not be of worry to whatever you show
Your hidden battles, a courage untold
May we raise a glass to the healing you bestow

Language is a gably thing,
One can gister words as they go;
Cacophony of sounds we set meanings with,
Leaving me flummoxed every time I unwreathe.

Sesquipedalian, dollipling, mollycoddle
Do these quixotic words truly exist?
Wattucturic, rigmarole, dorizating
Naf, won’t tell you which is which.

Maybe words do not aim to bamboozle,
But some are just too choorlish to have been born;
Reminds me of how whimsical humanity is,
Passing on wanches that spell like these.

It is difficult enough to make amends with the living;
When you still bear the bruises from the cuts they have left,
And words still linger from the air of their breath
As pain resides within, like an unwelcomed guest.  

So ponder the torment of having to forgive the dying;
When the real bruises can now be found on their skin,  
Rancid air filled with indecision, faded and thin.
As pain turns into guilt, ghostly and restless.