Like a fragile crystal glass if dropped.
  So too is honesty hard to hold.
For some times honesty is hard to take if truth be told.
  And so we hide it like children playing hide and seek.
Hoping to be last to be found.
Yet honesty should always be lead with.
  Even if it means something gets broken.
For things through honesty may be mended faster.
For honesty whether it’s a good or bad thing.
Honesty is always the best thing of all.

I cried a tear
And then noticed it was clear that you were no longer there.
As this tear was left to stay .
Where you used to wipe it away .
No smile no words to say it’ll be alright.
Yet that’s ok you rest now in a painless sleep.
Knowing that you are loved .
And you’ll never be forgotten.

What you leave behind


Walking through the lines of a dead mans mind.
Reading from pages of what used to be alive.
Looking through the eyes of memories left behind.
Trying to peace things together again  

It's what you leave behind.
That lives on long after you're gone.
It's what you leave behind.
Right or wrong it's what you become.
What you leave behind.

Yeah the dead don't talk.
No secrets can they keep.
No lies can they tell.
When it's the living who tell of who they used to be.
And all that's left behind that's all that's left to see.

It's what you leave behind.
That lives on long after you're gone.
It's what you leave behind.
Right or wrong it's what you become.
What you leave behind

You can't rewrite what you've done.
No you can't take it back.
It becomes something all of its own.

It's what you leave behind.
That lives on long after you're gone.
It's what you leave behind.
Right or wrong it's what you become.
What you leave behind.

When it comes to the end
When they lay you to rest
All the things you've done still live on
As we walk through the lines of your mind
Reading from pages you've left through time
We'll see you through the eyes of memories you've left behind
When all is said and done laid to rest
What you leave you become

©Barry Andrews 24 July 2016

Crossing roads in time, just to stay a little longer.
Drifting off waking up no longer knowing day from night.
Still smiling still so strong.
Now just longing too be home.
Where it will be forever to rest.

Leaving this day for a dream, time to be lost into the night.
Leaving  the clock on its own to march through time.
While  hoping  to be lost from it.
Not wanting to grow old.
No fun is there to be told.
Moving closer to that of which is unspoken.
Still waiting for a dream to wake up into reality, instead of leaving as day brakes.
Only to be left again within the hands of time.

A bow draws through the silence of the strings.
Awakening them to life from a silent slumber.
Sending shivers vibrating through the air.
Each note an entanglement of bow and string coming together, like strangers lost in each others gaze.
Then torn apart by what would be the battle field of yet another symphony.
Till so gracefully bringing bow and strings back together ending with the last note falling.
Bringing them peace as both are placed gently in a case.
The violin its strings and bow now rest together till the next symphony is to unfold.

To give or take.
To love or hate.
To win or lose.
To live or die.
For like a math sum that a teacher write upon a board.
  These too are like numbers that add up to something within our lives.
For just as there is plus or minus.
  We give or take
Yet there is more to this sum of life.
For like to win or lose sometimes you can find yourself divided by a draw.
And yet just like plus and minus are opposites.
   So to are the fractions in our lives.
And yet they are all a part of the same sum.
One in which may be practiced more than the sum of numbers.

Living between the pages and lines.
Written through days and nights.
Where the real me comes to life.
Letting go of the fake what other people would make of me.
And turning instead to another page to make it my own.
Leaving my mind to wonder with its own thoughts.
While feeling right at home, even if nowhere but between the
pages and lines of a book.

Breaking through the ice of isolation.
Years of boundaries and walls breaking crumbling down.
  Years have nothing now wanting something.  
A voice once silent now calls out to anyone.
Exchange the dark for a little light.
  Finding change to be a breath of air gone with the style and in with the fresh.
For life is full of changes some good some bad, but they always bring something new.
And a change either way it may go can help you move along your way in life.
For a change is what you make of it.

Sometimes in my head.
No peace from noise of thoughts running through the silence unknown.
Waiting hoping for once just once,
too be all  but nothing.
Letting silence take its toll.
Escaping in its splendor till the next day of tangled thoughts.

As I look upon a piece of paper that of which is blank.  
Wondering what to write this time.
  So I took some time to look at it.
And I saw how nice and neat it looked.
With its lines straight and evenly spaced.
  And its colour a fresh clean white.
As it waited to have the colour added to it.
Whether it be by the ink of a pin or the lead of a pencil.
  It does not matter to a blank piece of paper.  
And as I write I can see it come to life by the words that I write.
That make up sentences to fill the blank Lines with life and character for all to read.
  For when we write a blank piece of paper starts to come to life.
Even if just by one word.

We are all our own mistakes.
For all that we have made.
Whether they be simple or unforgivable.
For like a puppet carved from wood, so too are we carved by our mistakes.
  For it is our mistakes that seemed to be seen clearly.
Yet that is not to say that is all that is seen.  
For mistakes can also be mended.
And as a lesson can also be learnt.
For mistakes are like teachers yet their lessons are not in writing.

A mask  is something one wears to hide what’s inside.  
As a smile shows on the outside tears may be falling within.
Then when danger is present bravery is shown but fear is really felt.
A mask is something worn to hide one from prying eyes for some time alone.
  A mask is something one wears to hide everything behind.
   Unless one wants to show others what one wants them to see.
But sometimes it may take others to look through the mask, to see the true feelings and person beneath.
For we all wear a mask of our own sometimes.

Shy

Sleeting snowflakes melt be for me.
As a flame burns from one’s heart so warm.
For it might be winter at its coldest yet it is more like springs warmth that I feel.
Yet so afraid so not one word of this is said.
For not wanting to extinguish this delicate flame.
For not wanting to feel the cold of winter again to soon.  
Yet is it wrong to say nothing?
For maybe you feel the same spring warmth.
Yet you do not show unless it is just me unable to read the signs.
For even in such little of time.
For is it so that two strangers can meet somewhere and have so much in common.
And have a bond made yet still delicate still shaking so unsure of this spring in the middle of winter.
So careful footprints do I tread upon.  
For who knows how this will play out.  
Who knows what is yet to be said.

Strip everything back to a blank canvas.
  And find a colour that fits.
For what is painted on the inside, is what is really seen upon the outside.
  For even the best looking can be overlooked.
For if you look properly looks are like a cover of a magazine.
  Made to draw you in.
Yet it is still what’s on the inside that makes you want to buy it.
And for like a cover of a magazine.
   Over time it gets wrinkled and loses its glossy looks.
And so too do we.
And there for in the end, it is only what’s on the inside.
That is all that is left to see.