Standing outside the broken window of life
Breathing In the poison, feeding on the strife
Crooked perspectives, singular views
Pain or numbness, which ever we choose
Dance, or play the music, either way the same beat
Watching the world die, bitter tasting treat
We watch, like spiders, weaving our web
Spin it out with words, views of life's flow and ebb
Feeding like ticks, off the emotions of others
Be it their actions, or smiles of fake lovers
Empathic designs, binding together
All we, watchers, into forever
This broken window, through which we all stare
Gives prysmic views, though never a glare

I have turned tides
when they told me all I could do was drown

I thought about you today.

I guess it's been so long since you've crossed my mind that I can barely remember the short time we lived.

I've questioned everything.
I don't know anything well enough to justify a moment of certainty.
The best that I can hope for is sameness.

I've lived thinking I was a decent person who made mistakes like everyone else.
A bold faced lie, yes.
I take responsibility for teaching it to myself
For burning it into my brain,

I thought about you today.

The reality is, something in my head makes me function this way.
Something deep inside me.

I could give the simple answer, that I've always felt insecure no matter who I see, and that being because the first girl I ever loved, loved deep enough to die for, live for, cheated on me. Made me feel worthless.

That person is you.

It crossed my mind how you filled my empty chest, told me I was good enough for everyone, that my funeral would sell out.

But I'm stronger now. I'm growing up. Something I never thought I was capable of.
I'm growing up.
Soon I'll think about you for the last time.
I won't need to celebrate.

I thought about you today, and finally realised that you're cancer, you are plague, all you are is regret.

I'll walk away, because a healthy person doesnt need that,

I thought about you today, for the last time.

stain her lips with your kisses,
but do not paint her face with your anger.
rage does not fit in romance,
too many letters have gone missing,
and too many souls gone silent.
let her skin be canvas untouched,
caressed out of love for the unknown,
stroked with a soft touch.
forget what callused the tips of your bristles -
there will always be another sunset to capture tomorrow,
and an artist is nothing without good supplies and good ideas.
but she is not a paintbrush,
a tool you get to control -
make her your muse instead of a tattered sketchbook page.
take her weeping from the background of a dark forest,
to the foreground of the sun rising on a soft-sanded new tomorrow -
take her into your arms,
mold her sweetly, gently into your heart,
and allow the clay to harden and heal any cracks still exposed.
a woman is a work of art on her own,
ready to be appreciated -
there is no need to change her beauty,
only a craving to be a part of it.

Stop crying, you poor, stubborn girl

Why do you think he is so special
When he took the most delicate parts of you
And decided they were ordinary?

Why do you think he is an angel
If he can sleep at night knowing
How heavy your heart feels?

Why do you think he was the one
If he did not have the patience to stay?

You will find that true love surpasses all barriers

So do not be upset that you have lost him
If he was destiny, he would have stayed

Because nothing can get in the way of destiny
Not even stubborn little girls like you