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I have yet to write the poem that’s in my heart
I have yet to speak my mind sound to sleep
My head touches my pillow like a weeping willow
My tears fall like leaves from sycamore trees
That stands 100 feet tall over me where I rest
My weary memories in the shade I hold my peace
Silently I creep across the hardwood floors
Quietly opening squeaky latch key doors
Counting every black & white square on the floor
The blood stains reminding me of my
Checkered past that was full but failed to last
Still picking up the pieces of glass
From the mirror falling down on me
Shattering my reflection and breaking my lenses
A victim without a witness to swear to speak the truth
Nothing but my fair share of despair
Locked up in my twisted hair
Though the good china has been put away
The floor has been swept
Time will tell all the secrets kept
Long before I pass away
