A morning shore, my lover's eyes
Drift into the morning skies,
And honey clouds above his face
Swirl ever round with wild grace.
A gentle touch upon his hand
Reveals the treasures in his sand.
Thus beaming with a wond'rous glow,
Is the gorgeous smile I know.

Lest his surf and sea and sky
Be lost in the ebbing tide,
He built a fortress strong as stone,
The outer walls of his bone.
(Unless there was some higher art
That formed his body and his heart--
God's handiwork at its best
For his gentle soul to rest).

Of handiwork, the best creation:
His hands at work! My adoration
Is great for those, which enduring
Winter snow and summer pouring,
Were weathered like white oakwood.
And while his handsome hands could
Wrestle (and so hard they toiled!),
Their touch never could be spoiled.

Their touch speaks of so much more
Than all the waves that hug the shore,
Than all the winding prints of feet,
Than all the gentle winds that greet
The sunshine caught among the boughs,
Than all the swirling sand in rows,
Than all the shells the bright beach wore--
Their touch speaks of so much more.

My lover's glance, and all his looks,
Are worthy of a hundred books,
Yet even such could not convey
How precious they are. Though I may
Illustrate something somewhat near,
A shadow is barely right or clear.
But one thing I see clearly:
We're "rab ne bana Di jodi."

Why must I always think in verse?
Is it a talent?
More like a curse
All day long songs pour through my head
But before they hit paper, they're usually dead
A few survive, most get archived and others quickly deleteted
It doesn't take more than a couple of lines to know you've been defeated

I look out the window: the sill is the brink
Of my depression, and I think
That maybe I have a chance to escape
If I jump out and run away.
But some things may never change--
I'm always failing and always the same.
Running away won't make me whole
'Cause my demons lie inside my soul.

Mama doesn't get me. She never will.
She's never had to stand on this window sill.
I tried to explain all my emptiness
But there's no rhyme or reason to any of this.
Mama doesn't get me. Neither do I.
We're two broken people and stuck inside--
She in her nightmare, and I in mine.
Despite what we're saying, nothing is fine.

This window that sounds like a mad man's dream
Is much more real than how happy I seem.
Sometimes I laugh till my sides ****** ache,
But in my empty heart, it all feels fake.
Sometimes I smile from ear to ear,
But nothing drowns out my sickening fear.
I'm always stuck standing, looking out that glass,
My life a sh-t movie, my acting first class.

As I look out the window, I often entertain
The idea of joining the fast falling rain.
I never will, but the thought lingers still,
As I bang my fists on my ****** window sill.