No one's here to hear my pleas
You said you be back but you never came
A false thread of hope torments me
As I scream out for help your hope has done nothing but plunge me deeper into the water
Finally I stop trying and accept my fate
You were to late
All hope has to eventually deflate
When his Gillette slices the Cake you give
And your Ribbon shows what a Prune he was
It's time to kick his Sorry *** and Live
Then realise he is below your Class
The School Council has met; and Verdict's sent
To advise the Nerds which Athletes are bane
But if you give an Artist a worth-time's spent
He will give the Cherriest Mood insane
Try to open your Doors, dear Fruitful One
For once, know that Other Hearts do exist
If you can sing where the Hill's Grass grow some
Then you know which Plate is worthy to fix.
Now in this Picnic my Noodles grow full
From this Prune-Cake made and sliced from his Soul.
The idealisation of the far-fetched reality ,
Doesn't make it right.
The happiness coming from someone else's pain,
Doesn't make you thrive.
The insensebility of taking wrong decisions,
Doesn't make you look cute, just cruel and naive.
The passing on of the confusion,
Shows your incapability of commitment or in general Life.
The repetitiveness of a command,
Doesn't make people oblige.
It's a simple game...
A game of what's wrong and what's right!.
Of seeing things you ignored ,
Being a self-centred blind.
It's an opportunity to open yourself up,
For the things you've done to others,
and putting yourself in their shoes...
The echoing sound of seagulls
Flying above the sea
And leaves upon their branches
Such a wonderful harmony.
Nature's inspiration was it
The reason for his call
From a humble shepherd on the land
To packing out town halls.
Music there within his soul
And words inside his head
Singing was his only goal
His future, good as read.
He sang his songs every day
He was asked to join a choir
Little did he realise
His fame would grow much higher.
He made a massive impact
Wherever he would go
Although he never wrote a song
His voice would steal the show.
He found himself a little band
They became like family
He treated them like brothers
The way that it should be.
Suddenly his fame was over
The result of a tragedy
Sadly he left us
Leaving behind his legacy.
With the most beautiful sincere brown eyes that reveal more than they realise.
Touching. Underneath clothes...
Warm oil drips on skin, glistening Candlelight, delicate, sensual...
Hands, bodies. Lips, skin...
It was all a dream