I know that I'm a serial over-romanticizer
I fall in love with a past that I never even enjoyed
I miss lips and hips that I left for a reason
I always miss summer in winter and winter in summer
I'm so quick to forget the truth and live in a lie
I know that you and I were never a good match
That is why the fire burnt out
Yet, even still, I miss you
I miss you and love you and think about you more now
Than I did any of the three when we were together
But you are not the first
And I know you will not be the last
Because I am a serial over-romanticizer
We ended things the other night...
There weren’t any signs of a fight--
Just life takings it’s reigns,
Reminding us that we aren’t our kings.
Just because we speak, doesn’t make it a law.
The destiny we desired was never meant to be ours.
She said, “There’s too many faults in our hearts."
I told her, "There’s just too many faults in our stars."
God wrote the book, but put you and I just a little too far.
I wish I could Michael Jordan and just stretch out my arm.
I wish I could dig a tunnel so deep that God couldn’t even discover,
And you and I could live there forever.
But, right now, all I know is nothing will be the same.
Destiny wrote our plans and didn’t assign you my name.
You asked if I still loved you— I said I’ll love you always.
You said, “We don’t have to listen to God! We can live life in our own way!”
It broke my heart to admit that we must listen to the stars, despite all their flaws.
She screamed, “You said you loved me!” But unfortunately my words cannot become laws.
Her eyes are like the sunrise
In the middle of summer,
After a long night of looking up at the stars–
Though all I can focus on is her laugh.
Her mind takes me places
The constellations can only dream of achieving;
But they fall short like nights in the middle of winter,
Where we bundle up beneath the thickness of a blanket–
Though it is her soul keeping me warm.
I feel my atoms going through transformations
Like leaves in the middle of autumn–
The man that I used to be falls
To make room for the man I was always intended to be.
I feel love blossoming from my heart–
It’s spring, my soul sings,
The birds chirp and all my mind can think of is you.
It doesn’t matter the season or the changing of stars,
All that my heart will ever desire is you.
I always used to despise the idea of suicide--
I considered it a weakness of mind.
But as each day flew by
And the demons of my own mind
Grew louder and louder,
I see my perspective has changed.
Suicide is not an act or decision
Of selfishness like I once believed,
But rather something completely different entirely.
You see depression is an enteriley differnet being.
There is no man who is depressed,
But rather a man who lives with depression--
The two of them coexist in the same skin.
It is not the man who takes his own life,
Rather it's the depression who takes the man's life.
You see suicide, no matter what brush you paint it with,
Is a tragedy.
It takes lives too young
And removes hope before hope has a chance to even show.
But it is not the man who ties the knot,
Or takes the shot,
It is depression.
Suicide is not a weakness of mind,
But rather a hostile takeover of it.
Depression is the evil one and the selfish one
And depression is stealing those who we love.
This is real, isn’t it?
I feel your hands on mine,
Your lips on mine,
And your hips on mine—
Still I cannot help but wonder,
If any of this is real at all.
You say that you love me
While you hold me,
But I wonder if you love me still
When we exit each other’s arms.
I don’t question at all
If you love me in the night,
That is undeniable--
Like the sway in your hips--
But do you still love me in the day?
When the sun sits high on the throne,
And the moon is nowhere near our souls,
Is it still me that you love?
Or is there something about the night
And the stars
And the shadows that mask my bed
That makes it the only possible way
For you to love me?
I guess my question is this:
Is this real…
Or only a trick of the night?
God’s daughter locks herself in the bathroom
With only one thing on her mind:
Cover up the imperfections
That she never knew were imperfections,
Until the magazines told her they were imperfections.
She straightens away the curls,
Covers the scars and the marks
As if her history had never happened.
Her drawers and bags are overflowing
With boxes that declare they are the solution.
They claim to make her beautiful,
But neglect the truth:
That she woke up beautiful.
God looks down and wonders,
Why we ever told His daughter
That her worth was dependent on paint
And cover ups of who she truly is.
He cries out, “Oh, daughter,
Don’t you understand that those marks
Are my masterpiece?
Those scars that you hide,
Represent the blueprint to your soul.
I dipped you from head to toe into a sea of beauty.
These boxes only wash away the perfection
I worked so hard to create.
Don’t listen to the devil.
His scratching’s can be found all around--
But I promise you this one thing,
All that I create is beautiful.
All that I build is perfect.
You, my beautiful creation.
You, my perfect masterpiece.”
But God’s words aren’t as loud
As the screams of the devil.
So, God’s daughter, continues to paint over
What the devil has convinced her are mistakes.
All she wants is to be loved,
All she wants is to be worthy,
All she wants is to be beautiful.
So she does what the world tells her
Will grant her those things.
God desperately cries out,
“You are already loved,
You are beyond worthy,
You are more than beautiful…
You are perfect.”
But she keeps brushing,
And the devil keeps smiling.