shortly before
the birth
of my eldest
brother
my father

so absorbed
in his most
unfinished
sermon

misplaces
a voodoo
doll

of a mime
my mother’s
mother

loved
and also
lost

You’re special, but not much more than most.
You just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
I poured my heart out to you and leaned on your strong shoulders,
Even while you took advantage of my pain and asked for things you shouldn’t have.
We go through a cycle of me leaving you,
Going through withdrawal and finding other people to be my pillars.
But then you come in with kind words and gestures and I melt all over again,
Crumbling into your embrace.
My heart seems to constantly be full of pain to the point of overflowing,
But I always manage to widen it and make room for you.
Love is a tricky emotion and is as finicky as water,
Changing phases under different pressure and temperatures.
And yet I can honestly say that I have and do love you,
With your rough exterior and warm words that heat me up from the inside out.
Just like everything else in the world, there is an equal and opposite reaction to this love.
A hate that burns so hot that it can evaporate my stomach and dissolve me into tears.
I could easily be described as a responsible, intelligent, levelheaded girl,
The one all the parents used to hope would rub off on their children like fairy dust.
But this Tinkerbell turns into Dumbo when you show affection,
And misplaces her brain in the depths of her passion.
I offer myself up to you time and time again like a painstakingly prepared meal,
But you devour me, and spit me back out to move onto another feast.
Your words, which have kept me sane, can drive me to insanity.
I spend days, weeks, months analyzing the phrase, “I’m actually looking for a girlfriend now”.
I’d love to know what your qualifications for a girlfriend are because I must have met them once.
Has the bar been raised, do you think, “been there done that”, or are there just better options?
We always reconnect when gravity shifts and my world comes crashing down on me,
But I can’t help but feel it’s unhealthy for both of us if I rely on you excessively.
I don’t want to become the next girl who puts you into a depressed funk,
Ruining memories of a holiday for you along with any chance of a relationship.
But how do you expect me to act when the attention from you that I crave
Is only rewarded when I’m spiraling out of control, or just downward?
How upset do I need to be for you to give me a smile, comforting words, a hug?
How hopeless do I need to be for you to understand that I’m barely holding myself together?
And why do my thoughts and feet carry me to you whenever I find myself back in a dark place?
I mean you’re special, but not much more than most.
I guess you just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

Be my muse,
I'll translate you into binary
and back again.
Lying on the ground,
blue carpet between your ears,
synthesized sounds convey through spaghetti,
hearing aides grow old with us.
Child sized vowels fall off their bicycles,
from between your lips.
Keep me busy; when I'm comfortable, I get lazy.
Your shirts are overlaid grids,
the holes, coordinates.
17.43
Always a poet, only occasionally writing,
I hedge my bets and roll die
with insults open to interpretation.
I don't like your words,
I don't need your hyena smiles
I don't want your degrading remarks.
But I know your skeleton,
your tendons, cartilage and marrow filler.
I understand how you move,
the coconut oiling your joints.
Be a textbook reference,
help me cut apart the paperchain people I’ve made,
I want to portray them realistically.
Shade their features with scrawled adjectives,
resolving to care about typography.
White school glue takes too long to dry
to have hopes of staving off entropy.
Scribble highways into dusty prairies,
be the cartographer that misplaces my world.

caked on makeup, lyrical lash lines, clear
thoughts for the first time; trying so hard to type
out the right words to make the world stop spinning ten
times too fast in the wrong direction. can't you see it's making me ill,
the way you casually can't decide and lean
on calves of glass and card towers of achromatizing dust?

I am a kaleidoscope of many other ashes to ashes to dust;
cut across from rib to rib and leeching out the clear
air you breathe. I am perennial, the one to clean
you up when you fail to break the mold and fall back on type-
casted stereotypes of who everyone else thinks you should be. still,
I am the one who doubts and falters, often

has the idea that we are erased and quick forgotten
the moment our idiosyncrasies peter out and dust
replaces bones we came to know. I am shrill,
and I talk too loud at all the wrong times; I can never clear
the plates I stain with blood and pile high with subtype
after subtype derivatives of things I should do and glean

vivification from carefully, anxiously. you have this lean
skin and enviable, insouciant lilt to your walk towards me at ten
o'clock when I can't see straight anymore, can barely type
the last letters of my poems. your eyes are clear
and you're free of that indestructible and obliterating dust
that clogs my lungs and makes me feel so ill

so often. shallow peaks of your shoulder blades, time at a standstill
when I merge into highways of veins and clean
breaks from responsibility, softly tracing jawbones that clear
my head for just a moment; hands that tremble to fasten
the world back onto my hollow aches and faltering nervous system. I dust
off your window sill and think maybe you're the type

that complements an irrational daydreaming messy busy type-
writer kind of lover. you know, the kind that hates to pay the bill
on time because that's another deadline to miss, who lets dust
fly around because vacuums interrupt abstract art and lean
cuisine, who likes cats and very, very often
misplaces her phone somewhere on your clear

floor nothing like the type she has, like the type I have, like the way I lean
toward your infrastructure to hold me still; darling, you brighten
my mornings of habitual stardust and glass not quite clear.

When my uncle Frankie died
I didn’t think much about death
or the short fact of living.
I thought about my cousin Siobhan.
Everybody did.
He left 3 children dying,
but Siobhan was already dead -
the part that harvested hope anyway.
But people tend to focus on what’s missing
probably because we're all obsessed with growing.  
Anyways, I knew then that she’d try to fill that void
like a hoarder, collecting anything within reach.
But her father’s watch wasn’t a token of relief
it sent her body into epileptic shock,
clutching white-knuckled at his biological clock.
And his glasses? Well she still wears them
but if she misplaces them for a moment
she’s liable to panic into another dimension.
Yes, Frankie’s death defined a tragedy
but Siobhan’s living only defined a tragic heroine
and all anybody could do was study her face,
know when it wrinkled from living
listlessly expressing that void, the missing,  
the agonizing in the glass of her eyes
that tells me she’ll never again hear her father call her,
Blondie, creep up behind, massage her tired shoulders
and tell her without words that he will always be there –
there with her.
Siobhan would count her losses like this
making grief tangible in memory –
like the loss of language her and Frankie shared.
Sometimes at night I think of Siobhan
at last thanksgiving watching her daddy wave back to her
on home movies never saying much but smiling wide,
wide enough to make you gulp and twitch
and feel the hairs of your arm rise.
I remembered thinking that not many daddy’s have kindness in their smile.
But I knew then that everybody was playing detective
secretly watching Siobhan, screening her face
for clues to a crime unsolved
talking to every other family member in the room.
I often wished I felt brave enough
to grab her hand and squeeze it to stone
and tell her very “undetective” like,
“If this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

Lost and Found

A labyrinth ever darkening passage man’s impossible journey and quest with the back drop of rich vibrancy of life being expended at
Every turn the steps consume time the natural life cycle is the goal live it up push the boundaries but never stop and really see where
The twist and turns are leading they lead you on but they are not delivering you only bound for the burning now lost yearning.

The soul the great empty store house neglected only holds cobwebs and loose memories this royal holy sacred place
There are drawers where just air exist these were made to hold garments made of spiritual golden thread derived of what he said
Glass cased cabinets were to hold awards and trophies never realized the soul held subject to the body grand deeds it misplaces
Scrolls gather dust just minor writings allowed poking out of a cubby hole the great treatise that marks and maps heaven are lost

Sundry bowls goblets dishes made for feasting on divine meats and delicacies still wrapped there delights never enjoyed
In them would be found nourishment the making of muscle vigorous activating power over powering mans outer appetite
He could store those weighty words that could sway hearts of others by the truth how greatly they should be employed
Only silence answers arguments reason divine instruction missed life’s activity saw no need for quiet mediation soulful empowerment

Slip among the vestiges of lost opportunity they stream out like empty gowns out ward winds only they do fill saddest waste
Contrary beliefs to what are plainly shown the entire fulfillment a wayward life craves to be entertained not instructed in what’s right
The truly dedicated have their soul’s store house abundantly crowded with spiritual food all cataloged ready for any and all taste
Subject to the demands of an orderly disciplined mind and heart you find richness in this walk and in forever’s sublime state

Compared to you
The world is dull
The sun doesn’t shine
And the moon is never full
Compared to you
Music has no sound
Food has little taste
And gems need not be found
You are a precious memory
That I can never forget
You are a unique thought
That for years my brain has sought
You can consider us each a soul
That wanders the world in search
Of the person who will make us whole
Who will fill the emptiness deep inside
And when we finally meet
Our souls entwine to each other
Like the thunder and the lighting
We will always be together
Just as life never escapes death
Or how time never misplaces its sand
I can never lose you
Because we go hand and hand
So be not afraid of losing me
That fear is just unreal
Stare into my eyes and see
Our love is but surreal

Lost and Found
A labyrinth ever darkening passage man’s impossible journey and quest with the back drop of rich vibrancy of life being expended at
Every turn the steps consume time the natural life cycle is the goal live it up push the boundaries but never stop and really see where
The twist and turns are leading they lead you on but they are not delivering you only bound for the burning now lost yearning.
The soul the great empty store house neglected only holds cobwebs and loose memories this royal holy sacred place
There are drawers where just air exist these were made to hold garments made of spiritual golden thread derived of what he said
Glass cased cabinets were to hold awards and trophies never realized the soul held subject to the body grand deeds it misplaces
Scrolls gather dust just minor writings allowed poking out of a cubby hole the great treatise that marks and maps heaven are lost
Sundry bowls goblets dishes made for feasting on divine meats and delicacies still wrapped there delights never enjoyed
In them would be found nourishment the making of muscle vigorous activating power over powering mans outer appetite
He could store those weighty words that could sway hearts of others by the truth how greatly they should be employed
Only silence answers arguments reason divine instruction missed life’s activity saw no need for quiet mediation soulful empowerment
Slip among the vestiges of lost opportunity they stream out like empty gowns out ward winds only they do fill saddest waste
Contrary beliefs to what are plainly shown the entire fulfillment a wayward life craves to be entertained not instructed in what’s right
The truly dedicated have their soul’s store house abundantly crowded with spiritual food all cataloged ready for any and all taste
Subject to the demands of an orderly disciplined mind and heart you find richness in this walk and in forever’s sublime state

Full of different stories, each box a world  of its own.

The box to the left has classic music creeping out of its edges early in the mornings. It holds a lady who forgets her very own name but never misplaces yours. Elegant and frail, yet strong like the hope she holds for the world. For she knows the terrible state it is in. She makes you want to invite yourself over for tea. Tea in a truly safe place.

Downstairs a box burst at the seams with healthy laughs the kind from way down deep, and the smell of true soul food. Faithful is the lady who belongs to this box. Her hugs are a mother's love. Yet serious is the tone in her voice to remind you when praise goes up, blessing come down, and Prayer is one thing not to be forgotten in the chaos of life.

Dare I begin to wonder about my own box. What it may be in the eyes of others. They hear it is full of open doors waiting to be slammed. Two opinions without enough room. It is a box full of muffled cries from one soul and more obvious yelling from another, a box built on tired and breaking support beams ready to give way.


I keep hold to fading sliver of hope that everyone around, see two young people lost in the echoes of this world, just trying to make a box into a home.

These verses filled the void;
Contributions from 'round the world;
From men and women, young and old;
Creating something out of nothing.
A prosaic mosaic, a collaboration,
From HP poets, a celebration.

A blank line
Awaits my thoughts
A blank line
It’s an invitation
A blank line
Patiently empty
A blank line
It calls on creativity
A blank line [sic writerunblocked]

To comment on this I cannot resist
The daily poem takes a new twist
At the top slot a poem that's not
A poem that doesn't exist [sic. Martin]

For the life of me -
I cannot think the words -
refilling blanks, and slots -
not coming across, absurd -
at least, not in, so many, words [sic Temporal Fugue]

Farts are nothing,
but previews for ****,
just like most
Movie
trailers
at
the
theatre. [sic Hasani]

Please fill in is the Story of My Life The Invisible lines the Unseen pain I walk among the crowds but I am not there all they see is a shell when the truth of myself is withdrawn deep inside lost between the invisible lines [sic James M. Vines]

When at 12 midnight
And my heart beats a certain pace
I finally turn off the lights
As tears stream down my face [sic jace]

the vacuum
Empty yourself of
From...
What u retain
What u contain
What u detain
What u abstain

Draw the lines of...
Your Boundary
Your territory
Your trajectory
Your sanctuary

You....
Draw your lines of action
Define your confinement
Create your vaccum

And now....
The love flows in
The bliss moves in
The happiness gushes in [Jugnu-the-firefly]

THESE underscores from a your keyboard--
Bored-as-hell I can see
The creative act has been forced-in
This outsourced work, taking our
Outsourced words, during work-hours [sic Sean Murray]

Lines
Lines Blank call
like void of creation to birth.
They grab my attention
luring poet mind
to commence firing away.
It fires in blasts of gratitude,
jarring empty spaces of thoughts
Phases that have no connections
until pen touches paper
or fingers touch keyboard.
Until I shout out to another writer
named Francie who inspired
to fill the void.[sic Star BG]

i would have described my frustrations
what i expect from u
but i decide to keep my lips shut
its not what it seems
sometimes my lips cant depict my problems........ [sic Gucco]

It's a new year, yet are we, new people
although many others have been extinguished,
my star still shines and twinkles (although not as valiantly)
and so does yours
and I pray that it may twinkle,
for the longest time indeed. [sic sincere humble cowardly Song]

Words can be over-rated,
its the blank page that often inspires,
images tumbling over themselves,
waiting to be scribed by word-squires. [sic Pagan Paul]

Like this goose of a poem I'm holdin'
The deliberate silence of this is golden

Now don't be cheap
and don't be crass

hold your words until the last
without donkey ears your still being an a... [sic Green Trees]

The symmetry of her eyes collapsed into the void............
....sixteen teardrops spilled on the morning sky............
............Colorless and absurd............................
............the sunrise misplaces past happiness............
Future was you [sic Kyte]

Your poem is good but mine is better
You should feel the poem, writing doesn't matter [sic Daman Singh]

I do nothing
Others do it for me [sic Dennis Faulk]

To all the confusing things that roam my head and heart that I cannot read what it’s actually telling me. [sic Sara]

The eyes sees genuineness that mind yearns
The heart feels what it needs to learn,
Yet all is but God's ultimate plan!
Life amidst it's hustsles goes on and on. [sic Saumya]

Broken Chains
Free me,break these chains of *******
Chains that bound and confine me to rules
Shackles that control me against my will
Fetters that make me submit to emotions
Irons that make me less humane,free me
Till all that's left are broken chains. [sic Abi]

Feelings so fierce as they swarm inside
No escape as theyey spin and spin
I try to open a door
To let them out
At last, the page is blank [sic Lin]

light for sure
shy of ardor
less is more
why try harder? [Ian Woods]

And thus the blankness left,
And the void was filled.

A labyrinth ever darkening passage man’s impossible journey and quest with the back drop of rich vibrancy of life being expended at
Every turn the steps consume time the natural life cycle is the goal live it up push the boundaries but never stop and really see where
The twist and turns are leading they lead you on but they are not delivering you only bound for the burning now lost yearning.

The soul the great empty store house neglected only holds cobwebs and loose memories this royal holy sacred place
There are drawers where just air exist these were made to hold garments made of spiritual golden thread derived of what he said
Glass cased cabinets were to hold awards and trophies never realized the soul held subject to the body grand deeds it misplaces
Scrolls gather dust just minor writings allowed poking out of a cubby hole the great treatise that marks and maps heaven are lost

Sundry bowls goblets dishes made for feasting on divine meats and delicacies still wrapped there delights never enjoyed
In them would be found nourishment the making of muscle vigorous activating power over powering mans outer appetite
He could store those weighty words that could sway hearts of others by the truth how greatly they should be employed
Only silence answers arguments reason divine instruction missed life’s activity saw no need for quiet mediation soulful empowerment

Slip among the vestiges of lost opportunity they stream out like empty gowns out ward winds only they do fill saddest waste
Contrary beliefs to what are plainly shown the entire fulfillment a wayward life craves to be entertained not instructed in what’s right
The truly dedicated have their soul’s store house abundantly crowded with spiritual food all cataloged ready for any and all taste
Subject to the demands of an orderly disciplined mind and heart you find richness in this walk and in forever’s sublime state

Hoping she’s sleeping
Not creeping about  
And in silence I’m keeping with
Demons of doubt
They keep nagging
And bragging
I told you so
Knowing
Before she invaded my heart
Overflowing
In storms of her turbulent
Surge volatility
Scourge of the underworld
Urging virility
Silly me thinking
She loses control
Just misplaces her mind
And embraces the cold

misplaced letters; misplaces trust
the world dines on their wanton lust
wandering footsteps, weakened by bottle glass.
I hurry up , so I won't be last.
Screaming
no glory
Dreaming
outscoring
forwarded footsteps and unopened mail,
left out in the barrenness, the terse winter Gael.
what should I do ?
what can't I see ?
left all alone
burdened by me.

White shirts,
Chicken nuggets,
Kisses your brother,
Writes to your mother,
Reeks of stale cologne,
Always misplaces his keys.

Laughs like rain,
Fixes his tie,
Melts into your skin,
Drown in his eyes,
Golden as the sun,
Bitter as the night.

Drinks too much,
Watches you cry,
Ties knots in your hair,
Screams like dad,
Mismatches his socks,
Kisses you goodnight.

***** his teeth,
Rolls his eyes,
Corrects my typos,
Sleeps inconsistently,
Drives in reverse,
Cracks eggs with one hand.

Writes you poems,
Plays you guitar,
Traces your spine,
Kisses relentlessly,
Unzips your soul,
Keeps himself in a jar.

She was a shipping yard,
Covered in snow and ice,
Her words broke apart in many ideas,
They shattered and fell,
To a ground of many pieces,
Cold waters and cold stares,
They kept her up and they kept insomnia,
As if upon a leash of little length,
Ideas and misplaces sentences grouped together,
They formed dreams that made her and,
The victims of her social stories, wonder,
Wonder and wander of a cause for such immagination,
Her boats, her ships, her plans of improvement,
They all seemed to bend with the test of time,
A spent and splendid, waiting and living,
Living for the fresh breaths that come with stale sea air,
Waiting for another foreign hello, and a local hello,
Sending thoughts, and sending gifts, all with a certain,
Very curious price, a file in a folder, she waited,
Tedious excitement and the glowing eyes of everyone else,
The smiles and the nods, as she went on her way,
She was a way from here to there,
And she was happy with her seas, her sometimes snow, and her sometimes ice.

A lost black and white picture
-Misplaces forever
A protruding tree in a pond
-Endlessly drowning

But I showed you a strong face
Yes, I showed you a lie
I thought for you to leave in peace
It was necessary for my burden
To find a place to hide

Home in your eye veered north
A rebel endeavor to outrun
The fire that is your skin
Like a shooting star

A star that had to die
For my unremarkable eye
To catch a glimpse of light
Teaching me how to say

-Goodbye

I



A plane touches down

And safely carries you to a land

less crowded than London’s bustling streets.

Foreign, warmer climates

That sufficiently cater for wine and feasts.

Land that carries blood through its Black River,

Excuses to not swim in Summer’s heat.

A southern tip that travellers will visit and disparage

A separation of two cultures

As if history teaches nothing

And geography misplaces some from another





II



A plane touches down

And safely carries me to a land

I call home. Where surroundings are

less crowded than London’s bustling streets.

Where old friends gather

To celebrate all those returning home.

The pubs more filled than churches.

Worshippers huddle under a heater,

Hands clasping a pint of black.

A separation of two cultures

once again this year’s Christmas dinner discussion.

As if history teaches nothing

And geography misplaces some from another.

But today, we count ourselves lucky

To sit here as one family.

A labyrinth ever darkening passage man’s impossible journey and quest with the back drop of rich vibrancy of life being expended at
Every turn the steps consume time the natural life cycle is the goal live it up push the boundaries but never stop and really see where
The twist and turns are leading they lead you on but they are not delivering you only bound for the burning now lost yearning.

The soul the great empty store house neglected only holds cobwebs and loose memories this royal holy sacred place
There are drawers where just air exist these were made to hold garments made of spiritual golden thread derived of what he said
Glass cased cabinets were to hold awards and trophies never realized the soul held subject to the body grand deeds it misplaces
Scrolls gather dust just minor writings allowed poking out of a cubby hole the great treatise that marks and maps heaven are lost

Sundry bowls goblets dishes made for feasting on divine meats and delicacies still wrapped there delights never enjoyed
In them would be found nourishment the making of muscle vigorous activating power over powering mans outer appetite
He could store those weighty words that could sway hearts of others by the truth how greatly they should be employed
Only silence answers arguments reason divine instruction missed life’s activity saw no need for quiet mediation soulful empowerment

Slip among the vestiges of lost opportunity they stream out like empty gowns out ward winds only they do fill saddest waste
Contrary beliefs to what are plainly shown the entire fulfillment a wayward life craves to be entertained not instructed in what’s right
The truly dedicated have their soul’s store house abundantly crowded with spiritual food all cataloged ready for any and all taste
Subject to the demands of an orderly disciplined mind and heart you find richness in this walk and in forever’s sublime state

My eyes are of the hills, I see what it is;
When the night guards lost their ways,
And the ball of the hunter whistle is miss.
Ha! I see from the hills what ahead lays.

My eyes are of the witch, I see what is deep;
When the shepherd misplaces his rod,
And to be the lord are the lot of his sheep.
Ha! I See all duel over who to be the lord.

My eyes are of the wise, I see with my mind;
When the chief's pant is turn underneath,
And his child point and laugh at his find.
Ha! I see the shame the visitor see both with.

Oh! I see, when we crack our egg with stone,
Alas! And we have nothing left to call our own.

#Indeed, I see it from the end#

POET:  OLUWATIMILEHIN ADEJUMOBI ALABI

It was never my fear that, upon first seeing me,
She would deem me inadequate and reject me entirely right there and then.
It was the coming thunder,
When formalities are finished and our feelings are confirmed,
Where she thinks herself content with my company,
That shook me to my foundation with anxiety.
I cannot help but think,
That even in contentment,
A seed of doubt may find fertile soil in her heart,
And sprout a sudden longing,
A quiet panging,
Which reverberates through the days that grow longer and longer in length,
With each echo leaving a more and more profound impression.
And when this panging starts to get louder,
Until it is akin to church bells in her heart,
It will rouse her from her sleep-like state of contentment,
And have her find that something feels a bit off.
At first, she will not be able to put her finger on it,
But slowly she figures it out;
My images of her set in marble turn into plastic,
Lines of poetry begin to smudge as if written in cheap ink,
Letters begin to fox with its yellowing paper feeling dated to the touch.
And she suddenly realizes in the midst of others,
That this is not enough for happiness.
And then, by chance,
She misplaces a single glance,
Only to find something new
Something beyond contentment and I.
The skies begin to darken and grey storm clouds roll in,
And the thunder strikes,

Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnt­hunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk
Perkodhuskurunbargg­ruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidillifaititill­ibumullunukkunun

This, I fear above all else.

Watching muscles ache from the stress in your back
Waiting for bones to break from the weight of what you lack.
I would spend all my time helping you find truth,
And it really cuts like a knife knowing I can't save you.
And it really eats me inside,  knowing i cant bring you back.
AND I CANT TELL WHAT HURTS MORE.
PIECING MYSELF TOGETHER OR PRETENDING IM INTACT
THE FACT YOUR CONTACT IN MY PHONE IS JUST A MEMORY
OR THAT ILL NEVER BE ABLE TO ACCEPT YOUR MORTALITY...
Because saying goodbye hurts the worst when you know it's the final word
It comes across like a curse and I can't believe you said it first
So now the final word on the final page
of the final chapter of this narrative we made
Is my weak conscious whispering words through my mouth,
the very words I prayed would never come out.

I keep clinging onto the past and hoping the future will be the same,
But now I cry and laugh knowing the past would not remain
And I would argue with God, every night I would lie awake
And lie to myself, hoping all of this was fake.
But fate has a funny way of rearranging things.
It comes in unannounced and misplaces everything.
The hours are ticking and they feel like forever.
But forever came suddenly and it feels like nothing.

Because I got a new perspective on general anesthetics
When you finally went to see Jesus,
and all your family learned how to believe in a void,
because that's all that they could see.
Cigarette smoke and broken words,
My heart became the platform for everything they hated the most,
And I stayed clear of the lack,
Hoping somebody would come by and cut this rope.

And I wrestled with the idea of taking your place,
But I know that if anyone deserves a break from this world of pain,
It's you, it's not me.
And I'm still asleep.

It's not about being there for me, it's about respecting me enough
to tell me why you're not.
So I'll just slip back into my sleep,
There's a ghost in my casket .
and most nights, I wish it was you.

She grew up too fast for her own good
Much too fast for the times
With a wink and a nod, it was understood
By those, she would often pass by

Some said she was an angel
Others a devil in disguise
Depends on her mood at the time that you
Catch her on which side in mid-flight

She was born to a soft loving couple
Who gave her all she ever asked
Which goes to show what most of us know
She'll take it all till there's nothing left

Sometimes misplaces the wings that she wears
But that doesn't keep her head out of the sky
With the breeze in her hair blowing her beyond daily cares
Who even needs wings to fly

She'll make you into a believer
Then leave you beyond a shadow of doubt
Digging the hole she put you in even deeper
Until you find there's no way out

Like I said before I understood
Or even came up with one line
She grew up too fast for her own good
And much to fast for mine