"I think she likes me too
She is sweet to me
Like soul food.
She talks back,
it changes my mood
I do not know what I turn into
Its pure heaven in the feeling,
fills me up to the ceiling.
She pays attention when I sing
Not like the other girls do.
When I play my guitar
I hear her hum from afar.
Trying to make a song
About her,
I drifted away
Thinking about her.
Maybe she thinks of me
When she paints
Her paintings are always so lovely.
But I am not lovely
She should not think of me,
while she paints."
Michael was selfish. He was front, you were back and he was a fish. He could not lean to your side. It was an imposibility. There was only visibility. And the singer had vision. He created pictures, images in another dimension. He was a dreamer, day and night. Making him lose sight, of what really mattered; truth. His words had no matter, no proof. He was lost in a world of his own, thinking he had control.
Daisy was a role; it was meant. The flower made the tree whole. He saw this, tried to play blind to it. The image had never been clearer. How they fit. He was just a worrier and he meant not to worry her. Life has never been sunshine, at least not on his side. His insecurities had insecurities. He never spoke this to anyone. That it was faith alone and effort to the bone. He still needed her. His vision did not cover that far.
YOU ARE READING
Bad Love
PoetryThis story proclaims a singer. Michael is his name. Michael is my name. Keep up, this is a game. The guitar was his fame. He was a sickly lover. Flowers in his lungs grew, butterflies were the flu.
