Lullaby

I like this part of the day, when the sun isn't quite over the mountains. The time of day when people are still sleeping and all the ideas aren't taken yet. When I can just let my mind wander to those ideas and come back with pages and pages of a story. The pages are stored in the old cookie tin from Scotland, it's not just stories but letters as well.  The pages are kept safe and like Pandora's box they escape slowly and all at once when opened and read.

I like this part of the day, when the sky fades from black to blue and the world is still asleep.

War Hero

He doesn't do it for the money or for the glory. He is providing for my future and the future for our family. An American soldier, he knows the sacrifice because freedom doesn't come cheap or free. He will were those colors and salute the flag with pride and will make it safe tonight. An American soldier. Always fighting for the weak and giving strength to those that have none. He doesn't fight because he is filled with hate for what is in front of him. He fights because he loves what stands behind him. Fighting foreign or domestic on the front lines so that I may sleep tonight with no fear. He's an American soldier.

Never Growing Up

We stayed up late, late into the morning and late into the evening. Believing it was our way to stay forever young. We sang to songs we didn't know the lyrics to and kissed boys that were nothing but strangers. We traveled around our small college town and looked for trouble. Rebels in our own right and looked for ways to stay forever young. Falling in love every other weekend and heartbroken on our days off. Here's to never growing up. Friends and enemies in just a few hours but we always have each others' backs.

Those people were so drunk on coffee and cocaine that they could barely see straight. Dancing so that they looked insane.  Once on a high and once on a crash.

People were her Passion

She believed herself to be an artist, I believed her at one point. How she was able to paint flowers and sunsets, and people. People were her passion. She painted the druggie who sells sex for a gram of cocaine, and the old man who drinks his coffee black at the local coffee shop on Sundays, and the little boy with autism that plays with the purple ball at the park, and the boyfriend that abused her canvas with purple smudges and scratches.

I believed her to be an artist, until I found her canvas bleeding and broken above a splash of red paint. Her canvas was damaged and she was dying. People were her passion because she wanted to be them and not this. A broken frame with a broken canvas. The canvas once white and covered with art is slashed and torn and this time it can't be put back together again. The red covers everything and I thought she was an artist.

19

Those nights they talked like confetti and too much coffee.
All at once and way too hot.
Those nights they talked like tattoos and heat attacks
Terribly painful and DEAD serious.
But they didn't mind because the world was their own.

Just like the Moon

She was just like the moon
a part of her was always hidden.

She hid from the things that were meant to make her strong
She hid from the things that were meant to bring her down.

Her pretty side was always bright and full of moonshine.
Her dark side was twisty and tangled
just like how she felt.