Youíre the kinder branches long dreamít of
(eyes made for looking and working out desires,)
processing the predictable,
yet untamed, pendulums of human emotion.
In the end, always ashamed and sitting pretty,
still indoors and unsatisfied - undirty.
But dreams get bigger, brilliantly so, likes trees planted - seeds grow;
rain comes in
(through where branches burst the seems,) seeping,
seemingly, leaking love through these visual windows in these sensual walls;
where better to grow wonders in than water, dirt - (experience proves a grape-like mud.)
Worrisome ceiling corners crack with the weight of the nightmares
in the barrage of truth and faith and weighty dreaming rain.
What an ill and sorry strength holding up as the plaster,
the strength it takes to turn invisible,
(quietly accepting being oh so wrongly brave and miserable,)
cracks grow in the thinking cap of the skull Ė
(such a sorry canopy of paupers, fools, and kings.)
Ach, so we all go a little crazy and act a little insane when put in a cage,
emotions within doors play the part of playground
(and hiding people walls have a padding of nails.)
Rules and regulations, ďmatureĒ moral standing roofing the rough woven world of young people.
Girl who doesnít want to be "too emotional," taught to fear (and feel ashamed for the hungers of) the heart,
and neediness of a soulís starvation is the fear of a gluttonous heart.
(Tragic irony, that.)
But children should know, death of starving the heart is no martyr's death,
it's a confused suicide, ach, we donít belong indoors,
itís a wonder the pendulum over goes up in here anyway.
Letís go outdoors, donít we covet nature anyway?
Nothing is sweeter than the irresponsible and immature madness of selflessness, feral, free.
Maybe then this girl can be all you've dream't of,
and break down your doors, more doors;
for hearts want nothing more than to get their hands dirty, planting loving seeds.