She paints a pretty picture
But all the inks run red the picture Of a ****** battle
That's going on inside her head

She paints a oretty picture
Of a girl in dress and heels
But the mirror shows a skeleton
But still she skip another meal

She paints a pretty picture
But nobody's seen it yet
It's of a shiny razor
That makes her sleeves red and wet

She paints a pretty picture
of an angel in the sky
That didn't see the point of life
And now they all whisper
"Suicide"

Now i paint a pretty picture
It's all in black and white
Our memories and childhood dreams
Still wonder why she took her life

You took me stumbling to the elevator
Into my dorm, it was not even nine

I put on a movie
we kissed- hard

I laughed
you unbuttoned your blouse

I was below you
and I asked, "What should I do?"

You said, "Take your pants off."
so I did.

The ****** was on
and I was still laughing

Then it was happening
inside

I laughed during
I finished

I stood up, "You should go."
you left

On my comforter
you left your mark

Blood stains as big as my head
that bleach could not remove

I was drunk
you were sober

Was your first time,
"special?"

A woman
In disguise

Wearing a
Book infront
Of her

Around the world
In Eighty days
It says

Hope it's possible
If she gives
Acceptance

Eighty days around the
World

Her eyes can lead
Me to
Solve mysteries and
Face any adventure

Your name is a forest fire,
ignited, erupting, each time it dances between
his lips
and tumbles down his chin

In a book I opened
on page twenty three
I came upon a pressed flower and
wondered,
was it for me?

The book was printed, eighteen ninety five
I guess
the flower was alive back then and
so
it wasn't for me.

I wonder who placed it
between pages twenty three and four and
why did they put it there?
who was it for?

Sad,
looking upon the dead rose
thinking about those,
and did the book close on them,
did the rose
speak of love
back then?