All I'll ever ask of you is to feel my love
oozing from every heart in the room
when I say those words, those
unnecessary things that are said
too much but mean nothing now anyway.

Don't look at me with those eyes,
or come 'round here wearing that cheap
cupcake perfume. One day the world's gonna
end and everyone's mind will be thinking of us
laughing on park benches and singing in allies
for dancing shadows as everything envied us
so very much.

You keep leaving without a second thought,
you keep coming back to lay the world at my feet.
And when you're here you're not. When you're
gone you're here.

Baby, don't look at me with those eyes,
you know I'd do anything for you,
but Baby, this time it's over,
we're through.

That's what you said, so if that's what you want
okay. Just know the world's gonna end
tonight.

"Bring on the rain, if you feel
you must. I stopped believing
in you a long time ago. The monster
is you, not me the mere mortal
in your pittiful little book. Walk away,
if you can't keep an open mind!
Be someone decent if you're going to
have them all call you 'God', especially
when you don't deserve it,
in your bitter haste to judge us all.
No longer the apples in your own eye,
so bring on the rain, if you feel
you must! It would be such a sweet
lullaby at your own final night! You
don't deserve to reign if you
can't take a little rain."

Screams
the ******* the street corner known
for singing the lonely ballad of the forgotten
to all who dare walk by. What happened to you,
my fallen angel and when did anyone get the idea
it was alright to trample the flower just
because she was small enough
to be forgotten
again...

Everybody needs you, no matter
what they say. But darling, you're
swimming in dangerous waters,
with a fake confidence that they fail
to see past, a single fallen rose
in a city garden lacking flowers
and love. Oh how you remind me
of the muse behind the classics
that everybody knows.

Baby, this isn't paradise, that much
I understand, but you have to make it
okay before it can ever get better. You
have a blank canvass at the turn
of every moment and the people laughing
at your creations just wish that
they could do the same, even
though it's so clear that none
have the same talent.

And you hold on to those red plastic
guitar picks, the ones he gave you
right before he left, as if the moment you
let go you will be face to face with
Master Death. Oh my dear, you remind me
of myself, because it's true, you are.

Just please,
please come back to us
while you still have
the chance.

You think it's so easy for the impulse
to ignore you, for them to let you win,
to fight the feeling of being yellow
yet again. Only they tell you to let
them win this one so you can have
the next, they say you need to take it
easy and just imagine what it's like
to stop time, stand still and have
the world at your feet.

They test you at the hands of fate,
and make it sound so simple to give
your power away, but Baby, don't
give in to their tragic little lullaby,
you're so beautiful, our precious angel
from more than just the sky.

I try to write about you, but
it's so hard, when you toss
my words in the trash and
say that it's all a lie.

Somebody does care
about you, they want you
to have the very best.
There's at least one person
out there willing to give
you their all and someday
you'll see that, or I'll die
in vain. Because Sweetheart,

you deserve
so much better
than this.

Day after day
she goes about
her usual rut
thinking

that she is
the unlucky one,
once more
elegantly wasted
at the hand of a
never-ending flask.

And the gloves don't
come off anymore
because they are
all she has left to hide

what she can.

Broken daemons
make her miss
the last train home
as they convince
her that she's still
daddy's

princess

even though he's
been gone for years
without a single word.

She sings the
ballad of the
forgotten

as the Aztecs
laugh in their
pre - orthadox
graves with
knowledge of her
fate she has not
yet grasped.

But there is
still so much
hope for a

misguided

princess

in this world,
there is so
much potential
built up within her

beautifully

crafted

heart.

And now whenever I visit
the little art museum down town
I go to the cafe overlooking
the ground floor gala and buy
a single black coffee

before climbing the rickety
stairs to the top floor. I sit by
the window, on the white ledge
where artist once set up
their easel to paint whatever
lovely interactions were happening
down below on the beautiful little street.
And I feel the sun coming in
through the glass gently
reminding me of the good
feelings around as I look across
the room at the people reacting
to the painting we love.

The painting hung crooked
(at the artist's request the
staff assures.) The painting of
a man's lips pressed to another's.

The painting that could be anything
but is surely something. The face
man is handsome with messy hair
and the other is featureless with
an interesting stare. There's no telling
who else that is, there's no promises of
a gender or point. It could be a liberal
statement allowing politicians to see
we should be able to love who we love
freely and equally. It could be a
philosophical representation of
finding ones' self.

It could be a moment the artist
remembered fondly and vaguely
or strangers they watched from
the same place I currently sit.

As I sit there in the warm glow of
the world losing myself in vivid colors
and design, I sip my coffee easily,
the way you taught me.

Wondering who else looks
at that canvass larger than
us all only to see themself
and someone
wonderful
they love.

With a tear in your eye you smile,
"Your superstition sweetens my day
and soothes me from the thought of
things creeping alongside me without
my knowledge. And in your arms the
candy coated lies are actually
believable once again."

I try to satisfy your cravings for
the painful things unseen to just
disappear and to answer you with
honesty when you jokingly ask,
"Does she look like me?"

but Baby, no one will ever
compare to you. No one
will ever look the way
you do when the shadows
dance across your face and
your smile lights up every
dark corner in this place.

There is a love that you don't
understand when a man cheats
on his beloved wife. The only
thing is, when it ends all he can do
is pick himself up again and
mutter through gritted teeth,
"Baby, tell me this, does he
treat you well? Does he look
like me?"

No one understands, no one gets you
like I do and I'm so sorry that I do
the things I do. Just remember,
I didn't do anything any other man
wouldn't do. Especially by loving you.