‪To her, the I love yous were cheap.‬
‪To him they were heart and soul.‬
‪He misunderstood why she didn't believe‬
‪That she's what made him whole.‬

Happiness can be bought.
One rises, one falls.
Children starve, blood is spilt and wars are fought
Over what shade of cream adorns our walls

Some days he wore his teacher's mask,
It was his little trick
To disguise himself from students
When feeling rather sick.

He put it on and just like that
He wore the biggest smile -
He laughed and joked and taught them well,
At least for a little while.

The problem with the teacher's mask
Was that it wouldn't go.
He needed it when feeling down
And that was always so.

He wore it when he'd woken up
On the wrong side of the bed.
He wore it when he wasn't feeling
Quite right in the head.

He wore it when he fell in love
And broke his feeble heart.
He wore it when his friend had died
And his life was torn apart.

He wore it for so very long
He soon forgot his face.
He soon forgot his misery.
He kept it in its place.

He kept it for so very long.
It was a masquerade
So perfect that nobody could
Have seen through the charade.

And then that fateful day arrived:
He wrote that, "If they ask,
When rope is found around my neck,
I wore my teacher's mask."

It's being cancelled before it's time.
It's getting drunk off a glass of wine.

It's a full moon through clouds of pollution.
It's talk, talk, talk and no revolution.

It's no result and all anticipation.
It's ******* your own imagination.

It's eating without satisfaction.
It's science with no chain reaction.

It's getting some and wanting more.
It's asked for I.D. at a liquor store.

It's getting old and wanting more.
It's hoping, praying that there is more.

It's dying before you read the end.
It's living for a life pretend.

It's a half-full take on an empty cup.
It's slitting wrists and waking up.

It's falling in love over and over again without a real sense of hope about the future or a true grasp of why you are here and what it all means and why the world works in such a backwards way and why they all lied to us and why they all have such lovely smiles and lovely eyes (and dynamite tastes and senses of humour) and why I was mixed together in such a way that I would have about twenty one solid years before I ceased to function as a healthy human being.
It's just -

‪The world is a confusing place‬
‪And uniting those lost souls‬
‪Is left to poor Sofia,‬
‪And the pink underwear‬
‪That comforts Scarlett's cheeks...‬

This is an ode to love,
But there is no subject to this love,
This is an empty ode,
A coffin with the corpse long-decayed,
A debt that was never owed,
A terror unafraid.

This is to Donnie, the ****-Kid.
I have so much love to give.
This is to my muse,
But not about anyone in particular.
It's only Audrey I amuse
When dancing with vernacular.

She's what gives me motivation,
But is not the subject of my affection.
My subject is desire itself -
An emptiness which must be filled,
A yearning for a book upon my shelf,
Happiness that simply can't be willed.

This is an ode to love,
But you should know right now
That I cannot love human beings,
I can only love ideas,
And they both fall through my fingers to the tune
Of coarse sand on a lazy afternoon.

As dreamers we are oft to make-believe,
Escaping the banality of time,
Stories of noble royals that we weave
Into the fabric of this very rhyme:

For we three do descend from kings of old
And queens who conquered all of their domain
And live our royal lives burdened with gold
And bound to royal living we remain.

Royal maidens of Portugal and France
With butlers who they keep in line with whips.
While one insists they entertain with dance
The other one decrees "Let them eat chips!"

I just observe, dream, and write what cannot be
Who says Punto's can't belong to royalty?