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Description
I could draw you pictures of the Moon.
Make a little planet of graces and roses too.
Don't have to fight, just have a light.
Something sweet a bittersweet goodbye.
Where you don't have to go.

He was a string on a kite.
Broken through glass windows and bottles.
He tried to speak, but was ignored purposely.
He saw through the illusion of the world.
Crafting his tightly surfaced stitches of pain into paper airplanes.

He left the house with cuts on his arms and legs.
Didn't tell anyone what went on.
He thought it was improper.
Ripped apart by daily lies and doses of wicked truths, he waited.
It wasn't until the night before that he was missing the bullets from his gun.
Put them away, for safer use. He won't do it. They said.
He's too chicken.. Can't do it punk.

Yes, such words were used. That and more.
Eventually, he was driven to the edge again. Many times had he climbed this mountain, only to come up empty at the end,.

What is a life?
What is the bare, ugly truth that lies beneath the dirt?
Do you think he found out?
Could he face it?

That's when he said to me.. It's natural to want to die..

Maybe we're all waiting for the end, like he was.
Too trapped. With broken butterfly wings.
And he fell. Onto the cold hard surface of reality.

And cut off the elegance..
Twas too short a winter..

~End~

Description
I could draw you pictures of the Moon.
Make a little planet of graces and roses too.
Don't have to fight, just have a light.
Something sweet a bittersweet goodbye.
Where you don't have to go.

He was a string on a kite.
Broken through glass windows and bottles.
He tried to speak, but was ignored purposely.
He saw through the illusion of the world.
Crafting his tightly surfaced stitches of pain into paper airplanes.

He left the house with cuts on his arms and legs.
Didn't tell anyone what went on.
He thought it was improper.
Ripped apart by daily lies and doses of wicked truths, he waited.
It wasn't until the night before that he was missing the bullets from his gun.
Put them away, for safer use. He won't do it. They said.
He's too chicken.. Can't do it punk.

Yes, such words were used. That and more.
Eventually, he was driven to the edge again. Many times had he climbed this mountain, only to come up empty at the end,.

What is a life?
What is the bare, ugly truth that lies beneath the dirt?
Do you think he found out?
Could he face it?

That's when he said to me.. It's natural to want to die..

Maybe we're all waiting for the end, like he was.
Too trapped. With broken butterfly wings.
And he fell. Onto the cold hard surface of reality.

And cut off the elegance..
Twas too short a winter..

~End~