When someone asks me,
If I am in love,
I want to say no.

Because saying yes,
Will be more painful,
For me to say.

When I walk down the street,
I want to feel free from love,
I want to let go.

When I was younger all I wanted was love,
But I was naïve and fell for you,
And your lies.

I read those fairytale endings,
Where the princess’s met their prince,
And lived happily ever after.

I wanted that,
That’s all I ever wanted,
That one thing.

But in this world,
You cannot ask for something,
Without getting something in return.

Heartbreak,
Heartache,
Alone.

You were soo nice to me at the start,
You didn’t want much,
But then you started to lie.

And I believed you,
Why?
I don’t know why.

I hated myself,
Whenever you hit me,
Because it was all my fault.

Too late for it now,
Sorry wasn’t an answer,
All I wanted to was to be in love.

There was a paper star he'd crafted from his birth certificate,
A golden tip where the half moon of the badge remained.
He glued the star on the ceiling of his bedroom,
Watching it glint and darken as he lay in linen blankets.

His wife ignored his strange art,
Unable to fix what had already been cut.
She laid beside him at night,
Watching the dark spot where the star was hidden.

"You see there," he pointed to the ceiling, waking up his wife with a nudge.
"Mhmm," she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes and staring upwards.
"I was born to do great things," he said, drawing the star in the air with his finger.
He retracted his hand and laced it with hers. He said: "in the dark, you see nothing. I am no longer there." His wife barely whimpered from fatigue, listening to his absurd lover.
"I don't shine when you're here because my star shines in you."

His wife shook her head, her mass of hair rippling on the ocean of her pillow.
"What about during the day?" she asked, squeezing his hand with hers like a heart pulse.
He chuckled, rolling over to face his beautiful wife. "Darling, you don't see me during the day," he tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. "How could you tell if I shine then too?"

She watched his face blazed with curiosity, his lips parted the way he always did when she spoke. It was like he needed her air to breathe, which is in fact true. "Because," she started, a lazy half sleepy smile spreading on her mouth, "my star shines in you."

I'm the bluest of leaves and greenest of oceans,
the softest of bark and roughest of roses.
I might have the whole universe wrong but if I lie and say I love you;
I'd be twice as right as I am now.

I must spill myself on the road,
There's no such thing as a canvas for me.
No fresh blank board with a blizzard surface
Only tears and dirt stained ridges.

I don't have acrylic paint,
Yellows so bright it awakens the night
Reds so passionate it brings forth lovers.
The paint on the road is but dried up in corners.

There's no painter behind the painted.
No one watching its old and rusted creation.
I'm an art period with no semi-colon.
Rococo, classicism, baroque... they're not me.

People remember the names of long ago,
With curves of dead nature and spirals of pleasure.
Everyone recalls the beautiful old centuries,
Never someone will recall the painting of me.

I am no ship reck in the bottom of the sea,
There are no historians curious for me.
No lost treasure hides beneath the blue tapestry,
Where beauty had lied for centuries.

I am that road you overlook,
Driving on the one-way lane without thought.
There are rats and garbage and broken sidewalks.
I am the painting painted with regret.

I must spill myself on the road,
There's no such thing as a canvas for me.
I'm another crack in the timeline,
Lost in the hypocrisy of centuries.