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I hope he compares her eyes to endless stormy seas,
Because I regret writing poems that were anything like these.
I wish I'd never lost any sleep looking for the words,
So I hope he compares her voice to the song of birds.
But I hope he knows poems aren't enough,
She never deserved any of this stuff.
I never loved her, never will,
But I wish her the best even still.
The final piece was set into place,
And I dream no longer of that face,
The puzzle is done and I get it now,
What was done, and why, and how.

Back in the box, the puzzle goes,
And what it was, well no-one knows,
It took me years but I found the piece,
That finally let me be at peace.
A special place is held within my heart,
For that which has mattered since the start.

The first a jacket, of red and black,
And memories that take me back,
To when I wore two lapels and a hood,
And the days were long, and the nights were good.

But I traded that one, for a hoodie of grey,
That I still have, even to this day.
It seemed so calm, and cool, and still,
When life was not, and I had no skill.

Till overtop I wore the black,
That I still love, when I look back,
And I was smooth, and free, and bad,
In that fake leather that I had.

But the fake is gone, and trenchcoat's in,
But I started loosing, when I meant to win.
I liked that coat, it was brown and slim,
And is a link to accepting, being feminine.

But out with the old, and in with the new,
It's black again, like the old times too.
But who wears this coat, I know it's me,
But who is this coat, going to be?
I've worn five very different coats, as five very different 'me's.
I remember very well which me wore which coat, and when I changed them.
Who is the boy in my memories?
I'm certain that he isn't me.
Why can I even remember that night?
There wasn't much to see.
Except a petty argument, some broken glass,
And the people that we used to be.
I stare into the mirror,
At the monster staring back,
And I polish up my horns,
And adjust my suit of black.

For such a long time I pretended,
That I was young, and wild, and free,
But I'm accepting who I am now,
There can be no you with me.

I was a poet writing poems,
For a girl I truly missed,
But now I'm just a demon,
With a purpose I can't resist.

But as I stare into the mirror,
For just a moment I can see,
The much lovelier kind of devil,
That you once saw in me.
"In my heart I am anarchist",
I say filing tax for a band,
Who sing Punk Rock,
At council gigs,
On taxpayer funds.

And I wish I could burn down the parliament,
That I stare at from university,
Where I'm studying politics and accounting,
With dreams of finance ministry.

Because ******* it, I'm an anarchist.
But what's the ******* point?
I'm not into freedom, I'm not into art.
I'm a ******* hypocrite.
Something a bit different, and very hyperbolic, about the irony of me.
I woke up this morning and rolled over, expecting her to be there.
Cause when I close my eyes I hear her voice, smell her perfume and see her hair.
But I opened up my phone and realised, that she's not mine to miss.
Cause I had my chance and lost my girl, and I'm just dreaming of her kiss.
But ******* it if I could, I'd fight for her every day.
But even if I did that, she'd not be mine anyway.

One day though, you will all see.
One day she'll be waking up with me.
The dogs all asleep, at the foot of our bed.
My gentle kisses, gracing her head.
The love in my eyes, and care in my voice.
As I remind her that she was always my choice.
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