I Miss

I miss the midnight walks
And the long talks
And the why could we never sleeps
And I miss you
I miss sneaking out
And rocking out
And staying up til dawn and the sunrise
And I miss you

Did I ever think I’d get this far
Make-believing movie stars
And sometimes places drag you down
But I had bigger dreams than that little town

But some days
I wish
I could go back
For one day
And make a memory
Of you and me
Just one more
Like before

I miss the parties
In your backyard
And the fun we had those nights
And I miss you
I miss the sunsets
And the music
And all the dreams I never knew could come true
And I miss you

Cause sometimes dreaming’s a better way
To think about your tomorrows and yesterdays
And sometimes dreaming’s a little hard
When there’s no more us and no more to my heart

What am I looking for
What am I doing here
What am I searching for
Why aren’t you near

Where are you these days
Do you think of me sometimes and say:

I miss the midnight walks
And the long talks
And the why could we never sleeps
And I miss you
I miss sneaking out
And rocking out
And staying up til dawn and the sunrise
And I miss you

Lyrical Rememberance

They say there is nothing quite like finally remembering a story. The intricate trappings, the details, every tiny nuance and then, like a soft flutter of butterfly wings returning to grace your body, the letters. The beginnings of the construct, the base you need to find your precious words. Those that resonated so deeply as to be ingrained on your soul.

If this is true, then so too, must the opposite be true. To never remember that story. To have mere gossamer strands of perfect prose smother you, suffocate you as you breathe in the half-remembered bits of lyricism. Cobbled bits and pieces that tease and torment you with their sheer beauty that you cannot seem to recall. It grates at you. It is no longer a precious butterfly, whole and perfect but a tattered and slashed leftover. A disgusting, revolting facsimile of something that once was everything and always would be.

You will never remember that story. It exists only in dreams and grips into your mind with sharp, piercing talons in the daylight. Mocking your memory and lack thereof until you know you will go mad.

You will never remember that story. Know this. Lament.

And die.

Heroes

Her power is luck.

It’s not a terrible power she supposes. It could be something really ridiculous like growing her hair and nails or that guy with the spiked tongue.

Still, no one seems to understand how her power works. Those who just know the word ‘luck’ treat her like she’s invincible and those that know she’s still human treat her with kid gloves.

But she knows her skills and limits even if no one else does. She tries to explain that it’s all about extremes. She doesn’t always come out unharmed. It’s all relative.

It works like this:

Things that would cause small scrapes don’t happen. Things that would cause lacerations cause small scrapes. Bodily harm and breaks are lacerations. Death is bodily harm and breaks.

She still winds up in the hospital a lot.

She doesn’t know what would happen were her death to be horribly gruesome. She’s afraid that to her powers, a regular death would seem the better option.

The others don’t understand. Their powers have gotten stronger through practice and control. Hers must do the same.

She doesn’t know how to explain that hers don’t. They’ve been the same her whole life and, even if they could get stronger, considering that testing her limits could actually kill her she’s not too inclined to try.

So she continues being treated with kid gloves, which is slightly frustrating, or like she’s invincible, which is terrifying.

They’re called heroes.

She doesn’t know how to tell them she doesn’t think she’s a hero. She doesn’t think heroes should be afraid of death. She’s just a girl and some days she wishes no one had ever told her she was special. She thinks she would’ve preferred to just be a normal person with some rather abnormal luck.

She doesn’t want to be a hero. She wishes they had left her alone.

She’s afraid to die. Even more, she’s afraid they think she can’t die.

Even more than that? That they know she can, and they don’t care, because they are all of them special. Which means as a whole they are no longer special. As a whole they are the same. They have a duty to save the world and while they aren’t expendable, they are required to do their duty. Whether they want to or not.

She doesn’t want to.

She wants to be normal.

She doesn’t think anyone cares.

She’s still afraid to die.

She has no choice.

Glass

You feel continuously as though you’re made of glass.

Transparent and forgotten. That one dusty window high up that’s too small and angled just wrong so as to never let in sunlight, and you never clean until it gets really filthy and then you bitch and moan about how useless and trouble-making that one bloody window is.

You know the window is there of course, it’s a window, but you ignore it until you can’t anymore.

And it’s worse because you’re not the window, a sum of parts. You’re simply the glass. You don’t really have a function even. You’re a window in a sunny country. One that never sees rain or snow to keep out, and is still, is still too high to give a glimpse of the sunlight. So what use are you?

And you are transparent, you can see right through yourself. And you am not a piece of the puzzle, you are easily broken and replaced. And you are not useful.

You are glass. And you are worthless.

Claptrap Babble

Claptrap babble

It don’t matter what you say

Anyway

They’ll think you’re crazy

With your lackadaisy

Way

Just say claptrap babble

They won’t care what you do

You’ll be crazy through and through

Anyways

If you say

Claptrap babble