Dark clouds do not creep up at night,
Instead graze our minds when the sun does shine
And the thoughts impale us with softened blades,
Though our smile rivals the daylight,
If pried and smeared away with time,
Leaves what little can be known as charades.

Is it wrong for me to long so long?
With long a face I gaze,
Wonder to such degree of you,
With months it turns to prose and song,
Detailing clarity through this vast haze,
And pleasure did surface through this envious muse.

Poor soul that dwells in this earthly form,
How high have I pushed you, dear?
To be in such lowly trenches,
But do stride when death arrives in storm,
And shield your heart against its burning spears,
Ignore the sneers of its faithful wenches.

Take flight, old teen,
These blues are strong
And your courage remains to be seen.