Bloom Nightingale,
shed those awful things...

Little red robin with hidden pains,
Sleep to sing another day...

Societal Aches
Cold stories wave through the media...

Holding onto some Semblance,
of my former self...

I imagine her heart.
I imagine the break...

My empty hands are folded,
they covet something lost...

It scares me,
the Surface...

She's got that thing,
A broken smile...

Tears don't come like they use to.
They use to flow in rivers...

The Result of Entertaining Temptation
Deep inside an incased shell...

It was the perfect day.
A simplistic afternoon...

Shes that Girl,
Yes Shes that One...