Immortal Spring ♥

A Heavy Breath, A Face That Once Frowned,

A reason of your beauty that tears had drowned,

A touch of an ending that I felt in your silence,

A walk that was empty handed last spring,

Never again, Never again You'd break that string.

A hopeless life you wanted to go through,

A set of bricks where you caged yourself,

A moment of joy that you did long for,

A 'someone' that was suddenly called an elf,

Never again, Never again You'd break that string.

My heart would fly for you baby,

When your eyes shall start a fire,

Turn & break everything you want to,

I want to see you smile, I want to be your desire,

The little touch you missed in love,

I shall have you all stunned,

Bubbles of my love surround you everywhere,

Let's get lost because we can wherever.

We have our moon & I'd be your delight,

Set a mischief, tunes of your music to clouds,

Be mine when you let me dance high,

Dreams coming true & nature would vouch,

Sweet vengeance our past shall feel,

When we walk together on our palace on wheels,

Blanket of rain to keep our love alive,

We shall visit Angels for a high five.

Because A cup of coffee, A rose in bed,

An afternoon sigh that I hear in my shed,

A giggle of happiness when we dine,

A family only true love can define,

Always baby, Always An Immortal Spring.

A Curtain Drawn Over Dreamers.

When in grade school,

he drew gently with erasers on his desk,

the patterns rubbing away

with a flick of his small hands.

It was safe.

He could express himself

without getting caught,

no consequences to his actions.

He drew, and it was safe, and soft,

and he dreamed of wonderful things.

When in middle school,

he sketched on the smoothness,

quick strokes that ran

sharp against the faux-wood desk exterior.

It was defiance.

He could taunt fate with his graphite,

before erasing it

just before the teacher saw.

He drew, and it was quick, and hard,

and he dreamed of ordinary things.

When in high school,

he carved deep into the wood,

his words crude on the pristine surface,

unable to be washed away.

It was rebellion.

He could dig an angry tribute

to himself, the shavings from his pen

littering his too-tight jeans.

He drew, and it was harsh, and bitter,

and he dreamed of his great escape.

Now as an 'adult' ,

he attempts to make his mark,

suffocating among crowds

of similar dreamers.

It is weary.

He can express, and taunt,

and carve his way into the world,

without even leaving indelible marks.

He draws, and it is difficult, and lonely,

and he dreams of nothing at all.

Sad but true .