I watched a dream play itself out in front of me
My tears fell down and I screamed gleefully
The songs had whispered in my ears
While the ladies danced, their partners entranced

If all I have is thrown out of my room,
How will you recover what was taken?
How can you destroy what's broken?
Is this life meant for those who don't look?

I see white smiles, I hear loud laughs
He sits in the other room, playing, calling me to
Join him while he drinks a glass of champagne
He falls asleep before he dreams, calling me too
If life was fair, then he'd have hair
But I guess, we'll have to make do

This instantaneous vow you made is forgotten
Time slips through my fingers as I hold on
But the terror, and the horror comes crawling to find
All that Terror and Horror was meant to find
Beauty sleeps soundly on the pillow
Her weary head heaves with all that sorrow
Her own husband left her for a scarecrow
Pity he never waited till tomorrow

He shares his gifts with all his children
They despise him for leaving sooner
He wishes he had a time-turner
Pity he never lived longer

As he walked through the cities and glanced at the skies
He noticed that God doesn't like to cry
and that He would take him, when it was needed
Pity that it was not a necessity

He sat with his mother at the back of the theater
They watched a show which rarely showed
And the medieval King slaughtered his own
Pity the living, because the dead is doing fine
Pity the old man who was left behind

All of  the rowboats in the paintings
They keep trying to row away,
And the captains' worried faces
Stay contorted and staring at the waves.

They’ll keep hanging in their gold frames
For forever, forever and a day.
All of the rowboats in the oil paintings,
They keep trying to row away.

I Hear them whispering, French and German.
Dutch, Italian, and Latin.

When no one’s looking I touch a sculpture
Marble, cold and soft as satin.

But the most special are the most lonely
God, I pity the violins.

In glass coffins they keep coughing
They’ve forgotten how to sing.


First there’s lights out, then there’s lock up,
Masterpieces serving maximum sentences.

It’s their own fault for being timeless,
There’s a price to pay and a consequence.

All the galleries, the museums
Here’s your ticket, welcome to the tombs.

They are just public mausoleums,
The living dead fill every room

The man in the middle quietly weeps as the deafening crescendo grows on…

Hoping by chance he’ll soon join the dance but knowing deep down, somehow, he is wrong?

The people who lead have more than they need insisting on evermore -till it’s gone.

And at the end of the day they’ll cry merrily and gay;

“What happened t’was a wonderful song?”

The greatest triumph is victory over your fears. The bravest soldiers battle valiantly a war that goes unseen. Silent tears tares broken hearts beyond normal repair. Desperately gasping trying catch to a  breath of fresh air. Dark clouds hoover over head providing no shelter for security only despair. The lack of faith and hard times has us all insecure of our own selfs. How can I trust you with my heart when I can't even trust my self . The silent screams but no one hears or could it be that people are to selfish to even care.

How strange, a man who could choose to love, but hated instead. Himself most of all. What a pity it was, but that's not what he wanted, right?
He wanted their forgiveness, not their pity. Forgiveness for not being enough. But they thought they saw right through him, they know his ways. And he would agree.
   He's a writer after all, he would say. It's in his nature to dislike himself to the point of ignorance. But when does an act become nature? When does this character he has created become apart of who he is? Or was it that way all along?

I am so accustomed to the fact that no one gives a ****.
No one really cared.
They were never my friends.
They pity me and tolerate me.
I'm annoying and useless.
They don't want me around because I'm not good enough.
But they'd never know,
As the smile on my face,
Just as fake as them.