I'm the kind of girl
who will tell you stories
of heart breaks,
and lovers,
and their tragic ends.
Then, I'll drive you madder
by kissing your best friend.
I'll have you hooked on
lust-filled-drama,
like a ***** on heroine.
And you'll try to walk away,
probably storm off in a heated rage,
and tell all your friends
how "awful" I am.
But, I know for sure,
*you'll come crawling back again.

You give me premature ventricular contractions.
---

You touch me like a melody;
playing my skin like a silent song.
With your finger prints across my ribs,
and lyrics pressed between our lips,
I can feel you in my blood.

Pen and paper,
meet again,
in sweet love,
do they blend.
***** words of
dreamer's desires,
forming a book,
for cupid's admirers.
Pale thin skin,
covers
with ink's loving,
as the writer's heart
keeps on beating.
Even though this love
may stop at some time,
stories will always be,
a writer's valentine.

"Where is your heart?"
"I don't know."

---
Countless of times I have left
memories behind on doorsteps,
with bits of dried up feelings.
Because names become a mess
of dust and forgetfulness,
and only prevent myself from healing.
With no words to console my thoughts,
or a way to make it all stop,
I'll only fall from where I stand.
You'll ask me about my heart
why I always fall apart,
and I'll tell you, "That's how it's always been."

She's dressing up like an angel,
with wings on the corners of her eyes
and a halo around her neck.
Glitter-glossed lips to lock in a smile,
tightly winding a dress around her hips;
she's dressing to forget.
There's nothing good about a girl who is sad.

And she's got a tremble in her fingertips,
her pulse pressing against her skin
as she stares at the creature in the mirror.
Two dull eyes with a sad silver lining,
and a broken blush upon her cheeks;
she's seeing things that aren't her.
There's nothing good about a girl who is sad.

And she exhales tired sighs,
with failed wishes and last minute hopes,
letting it all die away with the rest of herself.
Because her mother never taught her love,
and her father never showed her what's right;
only leaving her to fall into the dangers of the world.
*There's nothing good about a girl who is sad.

Brown eyes
so sad
and
broken

Snowy skies
that reflect
in
them

Too cold
or
too numb
to tell

You bury all your problems,
beneath sunflower beds
and your back porch.
Cause the sun will take your sadness,
and drown it with its warmth.
And you'll sweep off the front steps,
shake out the welcome mat,
hoping he'll come inside.
And perhaps he will stay awhile,
and hold you through the night.