In the songs that are unheard of. Told as stories slipped in hidden books. We are not you, we do not play your childish games. Our world is ours. There is only how we got here. There is what there is because it should. We plead from the divine. We practice poetry in our deeds. The forlorn begs for her chance to dream, in the cheap exhilaration of commonplace praise.

We need not seek to be adored.

Girls with hearts laid on pavements, drawing their dreams in colored chalk. Singing of imaginary lovers and non-existant romances. Skipping skipping prancing, tears in their eyes. Playing on swings reaching for the stars up high.

Never quite close to touching anything but air.

Seasons are changing. The wind blows stronger, it’s a blurry mess out there.  My life is a distraction. Yours is a masterpiece.  I keep busy trying to remember last month, the twelve months past, the five years gone. I will never forget summers at home.

But mostly it’s difficult to just wait without noticing.

So many fools claiming to love, to want love, to be in love.  Without being loved back. Don’t we all stay a little foolish, until we are?

And even maybe after that too.

Moving on. Moving past.

Going up now.

How does it taste?  Your words. The ones you tried to hide. The ones you can’t escape. Eat them up, eat them up clean. There are jagged edges you cannot consume. They cut your throat going down.  After all it’s not so hard to say you’re sorry.

But it is, if you knew you were that much wrong.

There are wars to fight. The days are long and weary, it drains us dry.  My heart can be your pillow.