LinkStrifeLeonhart

To write or not to write It's why I'm always up late at night Thinking, dreaming, painting pictures Of the vast blackness in my mind To move the brush and summon the words Has become a chore and far too much work The colors don't come through and the sights go unseen The vision I once had remains ever fleeting But I'll sit here during the night Hoping to grasp a beautiful landscape From the innermost blackness in my mind

Tell me what is wrong,   What is right. Maybe I should keep it all hidden, Tell only lies. It works for other people, But isn’t really me. Why is being true to myself Bringing only misery? It should be simple, Maybe even easy. What I do should create a spark, And with time connect our hearts. It doesn’t work that way, Something’s always missing. What part of my approach, Always sends me back fishing? To try again is something That everybody says. They say do it differently But they don’t seem to realize If I change my way I stop being me. Tell me what is wrong,   What is right. N

Spring, Winter, or Fall There’s only one prescription More cowbell, that’s all

I could write a love song about you The one I hold so dear But that would be useless For I could never make it clear Poetry in motion, poetry in thought Nothing I write could match your elegance nor ought Short of sacredness, short of sin Maybe I’m the one the fool has all along been A rhyme scheme for my heart A sad time when we depart Nevermore for day to day Nevermore for jovial wordplay Perhaps I’ve known it all along Perhaps you’ve known it, too I sit here and realize That my love song is you

To have everything go correctly, To have everything go to plan, That is to leave no surprises. That is to take away our nature. Mankind is built on mistakes. We make them then learn, We make them then grow, We make them then adapt. Most of all, we make them to be human. Yet we grieve to be perfect We strive to achieve something, A concept foreign to our very beings. We reject ourselves and hurt inside. It’s a pain we all feel Whether it’s to emulate an ideal, Whether it’s to be the best, Whether it’s to know everything, We all commit to paths we know are impossible. Yet we still commit. Maybe the reason

This is not a story about me. No, this is a story about you. You bring to me much love and hatred. You bring to me much glory and strife. You talk in twisted riddles. You walk with whimsical delight. I could match you step for step, I could match your every word. Then one day I turned and faced it, Those dormant feelings you perturbed. If only you could see you through my eyes, You’d know why my heart skips a beat. Maybe if I could see me through your eyes, I might find where we truly do meet. But this is a story about you. Who’s to say I’m a part of it? You have yet to give me a role That you find is my best f