For this boy, a trip down memory lane
Is only a knock away.
But his hands are heavy
And only his tears are brave
Enough to fall and roll
The only feeling of cold
That his nerves can serve.

All of him is heavy
His spirit, breath and heart.
But it seems like everything
Is light enough to go with the wind.
Leaving him in poverty and dullness
And a trip down memory lane.

The whir of the engine
In the dark night
Marquees blur as the car drives by
Night lights flash and fade

High on music
Lights and sound
Feeling alone in a crowded room
Bodies all around
Alive and loud but without a sound

Booming beats
Spreading numb
Becoming someone I shouldn't become
Unraveling in revelry
The threads are undone

You love my eyes, my smile, my hair—
But what of the dryness of my hands,
The birthmark on my neck?

Am I still beautiful at 2 a.m:
Makeup smudged, hair undone,
Eyes half-closed?

What of the wetness beneath my eyes,
My swollen lips and cracked apology?
Do you still think I'm pretty
When I'm crying?
When I've got bruises on my knees,
Blisters on my ankles?

It's morning-time, mid-spring,
The time of freckles, bee stings,
And sweaty cheeks.
If you want me, you'll take it all—
I will not shatter myself
So you can love one piece.

You're always going to be,
The person that I fell for.
I wish that I could undo,
The pain I put you through before.

I love you so much more,
Than I have ever loved anyone.
We are star crossed lovers,
And that you are my someone.

If I could undo,
The times I made you cry,
I would do it in an instance,
And I will until I die.

One thousand large books
a painting never finished
a song never heard

All that is said
is never done
All my thoughts stashed upon the highest shelf, and
my dreams of you confined for I'm scared to fly
My biggest trait is both my light and dark
All that is said
is never done
carelessly with care
I've cut off my oxygen and removed my wings
All that is me
Is but a dream
I've become a puppet in a box scared to breathe

The fabrics of our lives,
come undone as we get older.
Maybe that explains,
why some of us get colder.

I'm not really sure,
how to put these words together.
I'm just hoping when I'm done,
that I feel a little better.

There's a piano right in front of me,
but I can't play a chord.
No melody, no timing,
just me banging away at the keys.

They've been telling me that everything,
is going to be alright.
They've been telling me that everything,
get's better with time.

But I'm living here on borrowed time.
I don't know how much longer I have.

If I sit and wait, I'll waste away,
I'd much rather fight for each day,
I'd much rather fight off the pain,
than sit here hoping it stops.

But for the time,
I guess I'll write,
about everything,
every step of the fight.

If I live to tell,
this tragic tale,
these words will matter to someone,
who feels the same.