Some people get butterflies
In their stomachs.
Others, however have moths.

It was the spring,
And it was love.
I was well of age
But remained a child
When it came to matters of love.
We spent our days
In the aroma
Of the greenest fields
Surrounded by the most
Well groomed flowers.
I had picked a flower for her that day.
The blossom in her hair
Has become a daily
Photograph in my mind.
The flower served as example.
For the reason that everything fades.
The flower, the spring, and love.
But also that whatever dies,
New life comes about.
There will always be
Another flower to be picked,
The spring shall come again,
And love is eternal.

Where others were,
I was not present.
While others spake,
I was silent.

As others were,
I was not.
And what others saw,
I could not bring myself to see.

At what age others were,
I remained a child.
And the things they so heard,
I had covered my ears.

While others loved,
And had shared love
With one another,
I loved alone.

I have always had a knack for eavesdropping.
Tho I am not in the least 
Fancied by the distant conversation.
The corresponding voice 
Of the majority's cry.
Place me in a situation,
Shrouding me 
Corrupting my sense. 
The constant laughter
By sounds unbearable 
The foreign words I cannot understand 
Tho do respect. 
The gentle voice enchants me so 
And am saddened by cries of woe
I look upon faces of different races
Precise to their own thoughts. 
My father told me long ago 
The curious eye does not go wanting
And the naked ear is evil. 
Such curious nature
Tho strictly forbade. 
I am bound by sand and sin 
Not to wander aimlessly into that distance. 
My thoughts indeed carry
By the countless tongue.
I hearken close to the strangers voice
To long for something to drown 
Out my own noise. 
In heed of advice only this.
For the unbirthed feeling to belong
And the fragment of admiration 
Lay gently upon my ear. ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

In the old town of Baltimore,
Where the Wild Things grow
Sits a lowly Raven,
Looking over the people below.
Perched on a sill, ever so still
Waiting for him to return,
Desperately calling his master
As the lanterns continue to burn.
He speaks with the dead,
And stands in the shadows,
Listens to birds while they sing,
As the chambers of his lonely heart,
Are ever so emptying.
The Raven, paitently waiting,
Making no steps nor a sound,
Faithful obedient servant,
Friend, eternally Earthbound.
Hear of this creature,
His song is his story,
About the one who was Lost,
This man they called him Poe,
While his name, the rest of the world forgot.
The man dressed in black
We wait to come back,
And bid his children well.
Through the many years of his wisdom,
Is a place we enjoy to dwell.
He calls to the villians to do his bidding
The Children of the night,
As terror takes away the feeling
Of days ever so warm and bright.
"Dessemble you creatures,
Evil and tyrant,
The night is ever so young,
Let's raise our mugs,
You thieves and thugs,
As we wait for him to come."
That is the story
Of the mysterious Raven
Who's been there since time began,
Wandering this Earth for Centuries,
Searching for this Immortal Man.
To this day we light our candles
The night is so black,
Waiting for our Master,
In hopes he'll find his way back.

How I celebrate the morning,
In it's warm, and welcoming light!
Though how I dread the wretched darkness,
And the gruesome tortured night!

For my thoughts deprive me of sleep
And accompany the shadows
Cast in gloom.
And in those hours I only weep
And fear my pending doom.

And even the splendid moon,
Does not lift my spirits, more.
And love grants no boons
Than what my heart had felt before.

I'm not a man of many friends,
I'm a man surrounded by people
Who appreciate my existence
As much as I do theirs.