Herfra til her, beskidte dearhas
endnu ikke modtaget en værdig ord
se den måde at Ican
producere vinger og flylike
det allermindste, poetisk fugl.
Once in a while, you flash me a smile
and I’m smitten all over again
but most of the time
your impatient, closed-mind
tries little to rein that ego of yours in.
You seem to forget, that I’m no Juliet
never claimed to be a butterfly
your face is so fine
with a heart, so unkind
tries little to learn the reasons why.
You aren’t alone, many have come and gone
with languages that I can’t understand
you’ve chalked yourself up
to that shiny, trophy cup
tried little, to know who I actually am.
Once in lifetime, comes a heart like mine
the likes of you struggles to recognize
so like a camera flash
just a ghost in your past
here and gone before you opened your eyes.