You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies...

I take my empty canvas
And I wash my ready brush...

Life is the blossoming of flowers in the spring,
the ripening of fruit in the fall...

The world's like a flower
Either fallen or grown...

A gift, shall be given to someone
That you didn't know...

Journey with a bucket of pins & needles
Journey with a bucket of feelings that meddles...

Staring out in the open air
stages of bluntness inside pupils...

Soaring high,
Being wild...

Grubby clouds, blemish minds
Times I have are ample of lies...

Solitude is the companionship of the self,
A meaning greater than mere silence...

He hates how she loved Him.
He hates how He felt...