Tuesday, March 29, 2005
its malicious and ever insane,
to leave this girl to writhe in pain,
time again she sheds a tear,
for it, for there, for him, for her.

Her eventful perils,
pushing forward on ,
her torrential soul,
unmistakably torn,

and stiched again,
with threads of pain,
like the sound of rain,
dancing on her window pain,

little by little liberated,
from an overcrowded heart,
her love rides roughshod over,
the sorrow that tears her apart

she's amazing yet they see nought,
of her radience and her love, that can never be bought.

the dandelion field may have withered,
the pink may have started to fade,
the skies may be streaked with grey,
but youre still why they were made.