In pulling out that old journal from my days in Portland I ran across this song I wrote for the woman I was with. This is vulnerable to share because I'm no poet and no songwriter. I do like some of it though.
Rise up from that cushy plush chair and and pack away your bleeding fear. The ancient own has flown his way to you. Here.
He brings his pearls with.
Bow to Angels. Run to fire. Drown in your cocktails or set up your high sails. You'll get through. We love you. You'll learn to.
Don't point to blame. Don't whip to tame. The scars are your own. Send him away out on his own. This is your home. He must go. Alone.
You traveled down Faith Avenue where vows were taken by one and one, two. Woman and baby, relation new, true. But once in a while in this world--one and one leaves only you and you.
He cages himself, a prisoner, only 28 years, too young to know. Eyes so empty. Heart so cold. He loved you. But love is old. It hangs inside a picture frame in a hallway of memories. He gave you his name, but what's in a name?
Bow to Angels. Run through fire. Drown inside your cocktails or set up those high sails. You'll get through. We love you. You'll learn to.
Don't point to blame. Don't whip to tame. The scars are your own. Happiness to each his own. If the game is over take your toys, go home. They're God's rules. We're just his tools of trade. Gotta make the grade.
And you'll get through. We love you. You'll learn to. He can't though and this you know.
Don't point to blame. Don't whip to tame. The scars are your own. Down to the bone.
Look to those who love and care. The badge of courage they will help you to wear. You'll see that soon you'll learn again to feel.
Scars do heal.