Before you paint a pretty scene, it is just me, yes just me. No one is here helping out, though I sense you find that hard to believe. Now go and take a running jump but before you leap, wait for me. Is this what you thought love entailed? You selfish being, it sure is not me.
You ran, then walked, and asked if it was then ok to crawl. Then how dare I follow suit, although confused as I once was, I still conform in insincere strides. I still beg and plead for precious minutes of your precious time.
So yes, I spoke but never touched and that was so hard to trust, I’m now misjudged. When on the other hand it is ok because it’s you and not me, now conflict is our escape goat and riding solo you’re cup of tea.
I saw a tree so fine and strong, one that could never do no wrong, its weakness is its roots and acceptance its hindrance. All of this was covered up, by fancy letters and silky cloth, a bunch of words all jumbled up.
I understand, however small or petty it were, there was no need to pluck the tree from its royal earth. Bare its seeds and leave empty, like a bottle on a shelf, without a lid or contents filled.
Oh, I see, now it is time to bleed. When all said has frayed the sky, left to suffer, wilt and dry, “you’d need a hanky for that eye?” Yet again the cloud so soft, still fluffing round trying to mend what is clearly lost. A situation you could have stopped but instead, left to rot.
A tiny replica of self, stood far away from that bottle on a shelf. Though this one knows not what’s been lost, its contents full and overstuffed. Its bread and butter be its mother. Its future unknown, though change still flutter.
A cry for help, oh just get lost, if that be so the escalation would have stopped. Though strength beyond one’s imagination, pelting in full force breeding courage and determination.
Stripped bare and left for good, I kid thee not she raised, she stood. Firmly erect all pert and motivated, no influence you groom could ever cultivate this. On goes a coat made out of armor, the sort past tense, can no longer harm. The sort the future will definitely embrace, whilst kissing away the cobwebs covering her face.
Remember exactly what has been said; take it with you, your dear diary a sort out pledge. No hard feelings from here on in, I kiss your roots and trim your leaves every morning. For when all groomed though imperfect, you are still god to me, as no one is perfect.
You may beg your pardon all you like, but that fore-filed bottle is ours for life. So as we share the contents bared, I’ll raise alone a soul in fear. I doubt this will even touch a node, though who cares anymore, not me that is for sure.
Before you paint a pretty scene, it is just me, yes just me. No one here is helping out, though you find that hard to see. I lift my head up now standing strong, for it was always meant to be a one band show all along. Silly me for lack of knowing, lessons well learnt though. Now onwards I trod, as life’s still growing.