Tender is the bud of the flower growing from the...
When the world felt too threatening, I sealed it...

Your head rests against a silken pillow,
Forehead just inches from my pounding chest...

The sunset drips in hues of blood orange,
Melting into whispers of the softest blues...

It’s okay. You don’t have to say another...
*another song of sorts, written in prose...

March 17, 1997, under the four-leaf clover,
- a symbol of faith, hope, love, and luck...

Blood covers my hands, my fingers trembling.
My throat is raw and burns from stale acid...

Will we find each other when our worlds grow cold?
lost between the there and now...

Ink drips from my eyes like rain from the sky
As I spill my emotions on this old parchment...

There is nothing for me to forgive;
I hold no resentment, no anger, no disdain...

Always think of you
When I see their colorful...

We’re no stranger to each other
But we stalk the walls of this party...

The word tattooed on my skin
A reminder of how naive I can be...