I had a dream the other night that were in a large field of grass and we were both walking toward this huge log with guitars. we both sat down and you didn't look at me but you got set with your guitar so i got set with mine, and you started playing that damn song and i started playing it with you and we started to sing as if we'd been practicing together forever.
My mom woke me up without turning the light on and so i sat in the dark and all i could think was "if i ever hear that song again i am going to leap from a bridge."
I hate you sometimes.
I love you so much that it literally hurts.
You are the only thing keeping me from Silence's grasp.
You know you're better than me, and you don't mind flaunting it.
For everything I do,
you do it ten times better,
and then tell me about it.
You know, but you need to be reminded.
Not all the time, but occasionally.
Every so often you need to know.
You are the best part of my days.
Sometimes I feel like I'm going to rip apart and fly everywhere,
but you always manage to come with the tape
just in time to fix the first shred back into place.
I'll never get tired of you; I'll never let you go.
I love you.
I feel as though we were meant to be in each other's lives.
You're carefree and I'm a worrisome wort, as they'd say.
It's as if we can balence each other out a little,
in a forever unwinding friendship.
I hope it doesn't change.
You are the street light waiting patiently
at the end of a long stretch of road at night.
You guide to me what I want to be my home.
I appreciate you.
You are hot like fire and cold like ice.
You've brought me life and death and everything in bewteen,
and you struggle with some things and reach other in shuffles,
and you're a contageous smile and a bright eye and
a twinkle on the moon and loud laughs and
I love you.
Your warm heart and your mother nature,
your sweet sayings and the way you tell me
how cappable I am of living.
God have you lived life, and lived it well.
You've been from Bangkok to Calgary without leaving the country.
You have this dedication to me and her and her and
there's something in your smile that I see and
I understand what she says when she tells
me she married you for it.
I love you.
You swing on emotions like monkies on vines,
but you're an intelligent man and
I wouldn't want anyone else in
You're sweet but I'm starting to have a deep seeded hatred
for every word you say.
It feels like you're choking me with things I don't want to hear.
I'm lying. I want to hear them. I want to hear them greatly.
But the quantity in which you shove them in my ear drums is intoxicating.
Who am I.
You're sweet but I'm starting to get annoyed with your words.
I love your logic but I am not who you think I am.
I don't know when I started this façade - I don't think I really did.
I think you put it on me, made it of snug fitting expensive fabrics,
and now I can't take it off.
I am sorry.
We did drift, but it was so sudden, I simply didn't know what to do. I'm not used to drifting, you know? And I wish I could say this in a more elegant manner, a more intriguing and interesting passage, but I can't. This is just.. This is it.
You're a piece of art.
You drink, pinky out. You write as if you've lived enough life to know what words are deeper than a dictionary can describe. You play the guitar with the tips of life and you play the piano with the edges of living. You've got a sweet, crooked smile, and deep eyes. If I could creep into your mind and lay there a while in the blackness of your thoughts, I think I'd smile. And when I came out and told you all of what I'd though while I was there, I don't know why, but I like to think you'd smile, too.
I am sorry.
I don't know you. But you don't know me either, so I guess it just makes us even. Maybe if we were more the same, it'd have worked. Maybe if we were more different, it'd have worked. The truth
i'm the eleventh dimension.i feel like a dandelion that is being blown away in the wind.
i feel like i'd much rather deteriorate under your breath,
in the hush of a whispered dream you know won't come true,
but that you slur it towards me anyway,
thinking that it's well worth my life.
or, rather, my life's end.