I'll be your anchor to the sound
Hold me here in time,
And remind me how it is to be found
Yes, I'll hide and you tell me what you find.
Don't worry about old towns,
Cities, miles, counting dimes.
When your mind starts to race around,
Close your eyes and just call out "mine"
You'll hear "found" somewhere near the Sound.
There's a secret to this heart that breaks and melts and ebbs away.
But you won't find those written here.
You'll find them, if anywhere they stain, written where I lay
My pen, dripping out my mysteries
In the sanctum for this writer's dreams.
There, perhaps my pen drips its own streams
Of thought, bleading my quiet story on reams.
Open your eyes and make you see that what you see
And what you feed your eyes are leading you down empty streets,
Candle lit alley ways and avenues of make-believe.
That make you feel you feel your feet,
Seem alive and full of daring dreams.
But it's just a stream-lined,
Picture, perfect, emotion-driven alibi
With colorful pictures as street signs,
Tumbling you deeper down the rabbit hole,
Another adventure you've stole.
You're still painting by numbers
Tea parties, trends and tumblrs.
Move one: Blue dress and blonde hair,
Chasing another girl's hare (rather, rabbit)
Down an endless set of notes as stairs.
Why don't you just stop, and eat the biscuit?
Grow up, stop looking at gardens through key holes,
Read the book, not just the quote.
And answer the real question that he posed,
Who are you? And when did you forget your role?
You were meant to be an original.
But on your adventures in Tumblrland, you forgot.
Fear not, creativity can still be found if sought.
Stop painting all the roses red, and learn how a rose is wrought.
I'd tattoo the melody of you, leave it like the print,
Inked on my skin, as it's pressed on my heart.
If only I could draw the melody that's you.
Blue, like his eyes, hers, yours.
Deeper than honey, darker than our roots.
Old enough to rust.
Tinted old wooden, chesnut floors
Bolder than oceans, brighter than pursuit.
Hughes I've come to trust.
What happens to the child that falls again, again?
Who tried to walk, but broke herself upon the floor.
Who sought to stand, and when standing found a plan.
Why, she'd carry herself right up to the door.
What happens to that child when she falls again, again?
Why, I suppose she stands. 
The heart can do funny things, like mirrors round a vase
Make you hate the ones you love, or love the one you hate.
When held, feel suffocated and wish for only space,
And when space you find, you wish it had a face.
