She wrote his songs
He played them.

She thought for hours, about harmonies and melodies, chords and steps, words and rhymes.
He played them.

They decided he was great, poetic and good.
He decided he liked that.

She wrote his songs.
He played them.

Like a child's first steps, I begin to trust, rely and give in.
Later on there will be hard times; I will fall on the ground.
I'll become vulnerable and childlike,
and need the assurance of a helping hand.
We need those first steps,
while it's exciting and new,
before we are jaded and unwilling
And we sit down.

It's strange how tragedy is addictive.
Like a drug, sadness
takes
over.
We believe it's for our benefit, that we will only grow.
And maybe we will. Some grotesquely formed lesson out of a complete catastrophe.
What doesn't **** you, can leave us badly, badly damaged.
But our hearts will be exercised, and they will bleed, but only for our "good".

That's the lesson, right?

I think we get attatched
and we need something to coax us off of love
We go from heartbreak to happiness
Only because without it, our hearts would give up
Our minds wouldn't think straight
Our mouths couldn't utter words
We are not living unless we are constantly fearing the loss of another.

I’m staring at the mirror,
seeking all my faults.
Every single one MUST BE the reason your love haults.
my eyes, like wolves, sniffing out the lines
that form my scars,
the cells in my highway-veins flow quick like racing cars.
tears as rain fall onto the bathroom tiles
while my heart is cold and weary,
I’ve walked 1000 miles.

Suddenly, you appear.
Life throws you at me and laughs in my face. 'An Impossible Yearning' life taunts.
I want to be close to you, but you distance yourself. I want you, but you want her.
You are impossible. You are my impossible. Is she yours?
Does every soul have a mate, and an impossible? Or only one of the two?
What am I?
A possible, just waiting for my match? Waiting for my impossible, who never arrives.
Others who, just like me, are unwanted and unloved, wait for their impossible. Wait. Forever they wait, and life laughs at them.
You are so amazingly, unbearably unreachable. My impossible.
I am lost, in your eyes, I am lost, in this life.
I am lost in a sea of possibles.
But, no - wait. My impossible will come.

If not, how can I be possible?

The one he loves stares up into space
The one she longs for is so far away
He can’t count how many lights there are
She doesn’t care; he’s too far, far.
The moon shouts “There! There! He sits by your side!”
She sighs, “Where could my love hide?”
The one he longs for doesn’t see
He cries, “For - she loves, but not for me!”
She gazes at stars as he swoons at her
She longs for love, never returned
Under the moon, his heart is breaking
Under the moon, where she spoke;
“My love, I’ve had enough.
You’re too far gone.”
Yet she doesn’t give up; she carries on.
He sings a song, heard high up in the clouds.
But, the cruel ground is weighing her down.
She doesn’t hear, though he shouts,
“I would steal that big blue moon.
If that would make you satisfied.
Your feelings, now, are made clear.
But why can’t you just see that I’m here?
The moon knows, the stars do too
No one but I is meant for you. But that won’t make you satisfied.”
The one he loves will not sit and look at the moon that tells her,
“he’s been there all along.”
She is too discontent, too oblivious.
And he is too hopeful, too ignorant.