Once protected by camera lens,
Her soul was intact, mind could think.
But was it real among staged friends?
Or was it all an act, as pure as nothing?
She has hope. She wants to believe.
But no one knows the depth of her grief.
Now box is open. She can hide no more.
Her heart was always broken. Shards on the floor.
Ruby red from sorrows that have bled.
Out of shape like a Picasso on the bed.
She is staring at it. It’s fading in the rain.
Pick up the pieces. Fight for happiness once again.
Have you ever tasted love?
The real kind of love?
Pure like the snow on first winter’s day?
The kind that makes you want to stay?
What happens when it is gone?
Like when music ends a song?
Like a road that twists and bends.
Everything eventually ends.
Oh you little furball.
How you made my heart fall.
You gave me your love, your all.
And flew away with a piece of my soul.
Since that day I’ve been searching.
For meaning to stop this hurting.
It isn’t stopping, it just grows.
What I should let go, I hold onto the most.
Her laughter drowns a story she keeps untold.
Her smile masks a heart that ever grows cold.
Her every step is forward but pulled back in haste.
Her desire is to one day find the courage to say:
“I am sorry I robbed you of that pedestal step;
A first born of correct codes was your bet;
I am sorry I was not correct;
Yes, he would have been so perfect…”
“I will never be worthy of your family crest;
But maybe I can be second best;
I will continue to do what I can to impress;
I hope to make it up to you one day, and nothing less…”
My stories have been told for eons;
Je suis un jeune papillon…
I feed on nectar gifted to me;
Ça me montre de la beauté…
I desire to deliver;
Nourriture pour votre âme…
So I choose to gift to you,
Mon art, mon tout…