My love is warm,
She makes my face flow with red.
My love is cold,
To others but I cannot feel it.
My love is trusting,
Good thing I was honest.
My love is playful,
Good thing I played her game.
My love is one of a kind,
The only woman I see.
My love is careful,
With my heart that is healing.
My love is a thief,
Of my breath.
I am lost in my love.
She is a frozen hourglass,
A bottle of endless time together.
She is my muse,
A piece of glowing beauty.
She is a torch,
My guiding light.
And, oh,
She was mine.

I am from the sea, the salty spray of the Atlantic.
I am born of the trees and stars, of cold winds and breezy nights.
I am a son of the red sand hills, and the lost letters to neverland.
I am the making of love and pain, of lost will and false strength.
I am the lord of memories of longing and heartbreak.

I am born of an island of stone, and seas of stories.
I am a child of hatred and spite.
I am King of a long-lost land.
I am the farmer of an ancient plant.
I am from the sea, the salty spray of the Atlantic.

Never may the dream man wake.
He slept so somberly.
I used to think he feared the world,
But now I think I see.
Never may the dream man wake.
His rest is soundless now.
Now, never to see what he was escaping.
I thought I saw the picture, but never could I have foreseen.

Never may the dream man wake.

Time burns so bright
Candles in a red room
Skin on skin in blackness
The flame eats, it destroys the wax
Climbing and clinging to the silk

Time burns so bright

He wears his rags so highly
Day one day two and nightly
Sun rises and his head falls
A dull thump against the floor

Time burns so bright
I roll over and i groan
Morning was way too soon
Night always seems too late
A sharp pain in my skull  reminds me

Time burns way too bright

Never have things seemed so bright
They blind
Never have things seemed so warm
They burn
Never have things seemed so sweet
They rot
Never have things been so kind
Its nice
Keep that
Its simple

You know how the saying goes:
They write one and you know they love you
They write a hundred and they love the craft
I'll admit
I've written a hundred and more, 'm sorry

I'm getting sick and tired of the same routine
Pacing all night
Until I collapse, exhausted

Spinning my wheels, running on fumes,
And ultimately getting nowhere.

I'm thinking of blowing this whole thing up
And starting from scratch
Because after we ended things
It took you half the time to recover that I did.

You know how the saying goes
And those are the consequences of having a muse.
You corrupted the art
And turned it into an obsession.

I've been limited,
Waxing poetic about your body, your soul, your grip on me
And nothing more.

Take this as a goodbye letter
To: you
And for: me
Take this as a promise to stop looking back.

I'll write about the stars
The wind in my hair
And how the birds sing to greet the early morning.

Maybe one day I'll write about someone new.

I'll write about living, and stop thinking about you.

You all told me how sorry you were
But what are you apologizing for?
You didn't do anything wrong
So why do you say, "We're so sorry!"
I've heard these words so much they've turned into a blur
So what exactly are you sorry for?

in this mind
forever wandering
lots of repetition

I can’t breathe,
Pressed down by the weight
Of meticulously staying
The same.

It’s a hammer
Coming down on me
It never stops.
A cycle, it never stops.

How can you stand it?
The mindless mundanity
Dragging us down in
A haze, eyes wide open.