but words are all I have, to take her heart away. I see her, I feel her,
but somehow, I can't have her. Days pass days, and years soon arrive,
hoping that one day she will hear my heart, calling her name.
Cold and Lonely Nights
Cold and lonely nights, too frightened to move.
The air is damp from the dead darkness, caressing my body,
filling my lungs, spreading bitterness through my veins.
As I smell the faint scent of her skin passing by the crowded sounds of light,
I catch a glimpse of beauty, swimming through the air.
Yet I, with a lover's smile, too heavy with fright to move,
only to watch her golden streaks of hair putting the sun to shame.
As a warm, gentle breeze sweeps me toward her, with only an ounce of hope,
I come forward to say love. Love me, and know my darkness; love me and know my bitterness; love me, and know my death.
And in my death, I will lye alone, in cold and lonely nights.
Untitled
The sun shines on her. My angel. My love.
She walks by the empty hearts, and fills them up.
Everytime she breathes, everytime she sleeps, I see her. I feel her.
I have never seen an angel, until the day I saw her.
I have never felt an angel, until the day I touched her.
Her sweet voice is all I want to hear in this world. Her sweet face is all I want to see.
I will never have her love, but I will always wish for it, everyday.
It is a sin to touch an angel, but I would spend my entire life in hell,
just to touch her again. And as time passes us both by,
I will whisper to her my last words...
Love is Suicide,
And every vision of dreams has lied,
Too late, too soon, that I have tried,
From tears with gloomed sorrow cried,
Filled with hate and selfish pride,
Leave this world, my heart has died.
Sad stories were made to hold,
With every dying dream that's sold,
When there are lives to watch and pay,
On guilty streams of dying days.
A budding rose, to first create,
Be prick'd by thorn, with loving hate,
Who quickly stumbles, to seize the chance,
With awkward struts, to catch a glance,
And overlooks with under pride,
Seeing eyes, that have not cried,
A sea of troubles, deep inside,
A heart of fear with anguished fright,
To turn the darkness, and make the night,
Full of dreams and stars so bright,
With cupid's arm so hard to hold,
That makes my heart, with love, turn cold.
~This is it.
This is what it has come to.
A quiet life. I'm not ready.
Am I?
Am I brave? Everything I lived for has come.
I'll be happy now. I've had life. I've tasted all I can.
Pain, happiness, joy, sorrow.
This is my final fit.
Some nights I wonder what it would be like.
Sleep. Silent.
I'm not scared. I'm not worried.
I hear the voices. They call me. I will come.
Tomorrow will pass without me. I'm not hopeless.
I have hope.
Rain will wash away my tears.
I'm so tired.
Sleep. Silent.
This is my final fit.
I'll be happy. I have memories.
Pretty sights. Laughter. Love.
I'm ready.
This is what it has come to.
This is it.
~
The Queen of Abbey Grey
The Queen of Abbey Grey has a King;
Content with what the years will bring;
Her jest returns a blissful gaze,
Between the years and passing days.
The Queen of Abbey Grey needs a life;
Sought beyond the streams of endless strife,
What she believed to be relief,
Were only echoes from her grief.
The Queen of Abbey Grey needs a light;
From Dark and cold and bitter nights,
Which dampen stray upon her breast,
Till weary, bitter, sore oppressed.
The Queen of Abbey Grey needs a high;
To rid her pain and bitter sigh,
A drop or two to ease the fears,
Of hollow halls and empty years.
The Queen of Abbey Grey needs a King;
Yearning for what Death may bring,
Exhausted of what life may be,
Rest your heart, the King is me.
