Crafting Something Like Songs.

"You write such pretty words, but life's no storybook."

Gorgeous thoughts of exploding colour melt into my head,
and observatory to call my own.
The stars rest, illuminating the sky in clear dust.
A sky of understanding, infinite blue.
Without sense or rules allow my thought to grow with
as much colour and vividness as the unreal beings
they are represented by.
Grow.
You've got room.

Beautiful thoughts
rest contently in your head.
Speech like poetry,
yet your true moments,
and when you're given pen.
The twists and curls that flow together in melody,
not with ribbons falling on back,
but with the soothing language of it all.
A whisper dusting his parted lips,
a sweet and warm molasses floods the page,
like no other, I draw in my breath,
and exhale.
It's over as soon as it's begun.
Vicious bloodthirsty smile curls on his craving lips.
I love it.

I wish I could write
of words so fitting to tongue.
So heavy to heart.
Of dazzled princesses locked in quaint cages.
Cleaned by maids, thoughts blooming in swirls.
An antique, dull key, greyed with delicious secrets.
An ominous smile.
Locked away in a place as polished as that word.
Dusty bookshelves, thick with old, yet all the more charming.
And so charm,
is emitted by secret corridors and fabric pulleys
revealing clouds of dust and a sky of wonder.
A place to explore.
A place where life and thoughts are dark.
But eyes are all the more magnificently aglow.
You call it vanity?
I call it pleasure.

Author's Note

These weren't meant to go together, but I guess they all make their ties.