oh how do i remember my name,

as i still want to change it,

desperately,

how does one remember one's self,

when one is tired of them,

oh lord hold my hand,

for its the last i try,

last wine that i drink in there,

and last dream that i have in here,

forgive me lord,

for the dreams,

the feet and the heat,

all the **** fantasies,

for i will try again

Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes...

A hazy memory with a clear idea

Memory was it?

or an imagination...

I see a cloud adrift above me

Then I realized it was both

Enough to keep it real

Enough to imagine

But I'd like to keep it real

As long as I imagine

A reality all about us.

I think there is a special beauty in being able to romanticize love.
Its all up in here, in my mind.
There is a spectrum of thoughts in my imagination.
Sometimes my love can be one sided and it's safe to say that i like that more.
The part where you get to wonder and the excitement that follows.
I wonder a lot of things about you.
About how do you look like when you laugh.
Do you have an ugly laugh or are you a shy laugher.
Sometimes i make up moments in my mind,
More than often in those moments, time freezes and we make our own little infinity.
Sometimes i want to say things to you, and i wonder what you will say back.
I wonder if you will say what i wanna hear.
I like the wondering part.
I like to think.
I wonder how it would feel to hold your hands.

I lust for thee and i say it with a smile
I let all of my feelings go
Emotional? Not me
Unattached is what I want to be..... but I'm scared
cause if I look in your eye's they'll pierce me and take me back in
oh no not again.... not again
I lust you and live to catch you back into my grasp
My tight grip, my hands, my love whip is what u want to touch you with
..... give me you for tonight, if that's alright..... right now

I raise my gaze toward the pale blue sky,
staring out my window as I watch the world go by.
Pale cheek pressed against a ****** hand,
I daydream of travelling across unknown lands.
Fantasy worlds and magic forests tug at the back of my mind,
things that only characters in books could ever really find.
But always stuck in my room, nothing around,
how can I truly know what wonders abound?
To a prisoner, fiction is being free --
something that I know I never will be.
My frail fingers trace the words engraved on the window's wood --
"Your mind will let you be what no one else ever could."
Except how can it really let me live
if life is a present that no one will give?