The funny thing is,
No matter how hard I fall
I miss your cold touch

Consider your heart
I wish you could understand
How trapped we all are

Find the words to speak
Breathe in, fill your lungs with fuel
Exhale, breathe out flames

Love is drowning me
Down, I spiral to the floor
Immersed in your arms

Time is a fickle thing
and though it may bring
something like happiness
it's not something of which I sing

Time, fading fast
slipping down the drain, doesn't last
for long, better keep it
before it's past

And though it doesn't last for long
Time still remains in the heart
And as I write this song
I hope it speaks to yours

Time isn't forever
and even the most wise and clever
cannot find a way to slow it down -
No, it will never be

And though it's almost gone
Time still remains in the heart
And as the streetlights glow
I hope it speaks to yours

Don't forget that precious time
Don't forget that all-too precious time
That passed over you and I

These pages creak with old, forgotten memories.
Memories of times past
Vague, wispy in recognition
some so mentally far away
I must reach, stretch way out
past my comfort zone
just to tap them with my fingertips
But - - -

What is my comfort zone?
Definitely not this house.
Where failure and guilt follow
like dutiful yet annoying dogs
No, I'm definitely not comfortable here.
Not my school, either.
School, where morons manage
better grades than I;
where sinking in depression
is taboo, more than sleeping around
comfort does not lie there, either.
Not even in my own self any longer
does comfort rest
my mind swirls
with doubt, cloudy thoughts, recklessness
all crammed much too tight
for comfort to be at home there.

So... if I can't figure out my comfort zone...
will I be without rest forever?

The scent of her perfume wafting through the halls
His eyes frantically search for a glimpse of her beauty
Both their hands cold to the touch
Unable to hear for the distance between them

She glides through corridors, a spectre in the shadows
Her green eyes shining like a brilliant gem on dark fabric
The sound of her heels a gavel pounding on a marble floor
Gunmetal gray dress fluttering with butterfly wings

His mind unravels, strings of consciousness out the door
Her ugliness was overwhelming; he couldn't have her
Chasing endlessly after a shimmering butterfly through a labyrinth
Wham! He falls flat on his face.

A ghost in the night, she hovers through the paths of his mind
Gems on black cloth, her emerald eyes dance in front of him
Forever out of reach, forever too swift to catch
Left to rot in the hot glare of her brilliance