Waiting for you is divine intervention.  

Like waiting for the world to turn.
Like waiting for a comet to return.
Like waiting for a star to be born.
Like waiting for the planets to align.

But I know that, eventually, you'll be here.
And that's what keeps waiting.

There lies my heart in cold again
waiting in the darkest pain
it prays and prays by the skies to be heard
but skies they reach with nothing but a bolt.

The pavement's wet, my heart is bleeding
in tears I see it breathless leaving
the wings I built they hurt too deep
cause wings of lead can't fly but dig—

There lies my heart in cold again
and I in sorrow am once more falling,
my empty chest, my tears, my pain
in darkness I am hopelessly crawling.

I thought I was the only one that no one understood
But I found that words could touch me in a way he never could.

When I write these things
my thoughts fly with birds
sometimes grey in storms
sometimes winged in skies
so feathery

When I sing this song
my heart goes in beats, bittersweet
sometimes heavy held, my sorrow spilled
sometimes warmed, red flushed
and fluttery

When I paint this canvas
my brush moves in labyrinthine moods
sometimes shades, darkest blue cerulean
sometimes flowers white, soft as clouds
upon the page, floating heavenly

Poetry is dead
when you are not here
to write it in my heart
when your voice is too far away
to read it.

Poetry is dead
when your allure is feeding
strangers' souls on the streets
while I am here alone,
my soul starving.

Poetry is dead in all my being
I feel its ghost leaving my brains
I feel the emptiness inside
and I fear the days
when it will come haunt me
and I won't find a way
to write it.

Sleeping at night it's impossible
cause I hear a question screaming in my chest

When poetry is dead
is there anything out there
left
*alive?