Dig a hole in the sand.
It’s where you can bury me.
The sunset’s never looked so fake,
painted on a fragile canvas.
I’ll shatter if you touch me.
And the water is as clear as it’ll ever be;
as clear as your crystal ball,
the one you used to trap my heart.
A prize on the shelf, next to the trophies and the
Long Lost Dreams.
They all say the sun is hot,
but it’s too cold for me.
I dreamt of perfection;
I learned nothing’s as it seems.
A cotton cloth is pretending to be silk.
(And my crystal, it’s only plastic)
A book, a page, a sentence, a word.
Maybe just a letter.
It all means the same,
Significantly Insignificant.
Maybe we’re not real.
Maybe it’s all too real.
But I know I’m just a part of the scenery,
standing behind my invisible wall.
Dry soil (and dry eyes)
leave all the flowers thirsty.
Yearning for just a drop.
I think it’s raining, or I’m crying.
It’s awfully hard to tell which one.
They say everything has a season.
But my flower’s already bloomed,
now the petals are falling.
Withering away until it’s gone.
Until I’m gone.