old haunts

The past is what I imagine a place of dusty shelves of old recorded books. They sit there and soon over time become forgotten. It's a recorded date of where the last breath you had with the one you loved or the one you hate. It's a recorded history of moments of over whelming bliss occurred and those moments of great sadness and great happiness. The past is an old dusty shelve that stands in my shadow. It haunts my dreams of old moments. It collects all dates and minutes I breathed in. It doesn't forget a thing. Everything is remembered, but also can be quickly forgotten. The past is haunting and loving. It remembers everything... every laugh, every tear, every smile, every goodbye, every accomplishment... it simply remembers every detail that your eyes capture.

not ready

I'll ride my bike to your house

to the party there

I carry the rain in with me

the bands playing here

I'm not looking for you

but you find me standing near

you ask who i cam with

i tell you i came by myself

the music blares as the crowd sings along

you look down at me 

and smile with those white teeth

I'm sorry C,

but I can't be what you want me to be

I feel to young 

phone calls across the country

you tell me you love me

but I've got no feelings for those three words

i'm sorry but i can't be what you want me to be

I'm not ready for love

coffee in hand I walk alone

i have no feelings at this time being

the streets posts light my way home

this winter is going to be far to long

I'm sorry C, but I can't be what you want me to be. 

My hearts not ready for love