Every thing we
Do for each other
It's from the love
Inside our heart's.

I was a chef when I was little
Best in the world.
The mud-pies I made for my imaginary friends
Always had the perfect consistency
And sometimes I would take
Little piles of worm dirt
I found on the ground
And use them as sprinkles...

But only on special occasions.

As I got older
My friends went away
And I can't recall whether
They left of their own free will
Or if I pushed them away
But they were gone regardless...

So I stopped making mud-pies.

I eat the food I make now
And I don't think
I'm that great of a chef anymore
But I like to think
My imaginary friends still do.

I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.

Skies are beautiful
They have clouds
But they still cry

Why wouldn't you?

You are beautiful
You have poems
You can cry too

You are the light of my life
My morning sun and my evening moon
I want to reach you and stay by your side
Too bad you’re just “not in the mood”
Too bad “you have better things to do”
Because the only thing I do
is think of you

I dream
of you thinking about me too