“Happy Birthday”

It was your birthday today
And I merely closed my eyes
Everything I ought to say
Dismissed with “nevermind”
All the games we used to play
Exchanged for worries and white lies
And if we were friends again someday
I don’t know what you’d find.

An Answer

I am friendless because
I died and no one ever knew;
Every day something of darkness
Inside my spirit grew.
But nobody seemed to notice;
No, not even you.
And I realized that I was alone
And might as well suffer that way too.

The Art of Impractical Practicality

I thought they went without saying,
All those kind things I never said;
While all the while you’d be praying
That my kindness might not be dead.

I Meant to Tell You, but for the Things I Never Say

I meant to write a letter, but
The letters burned away;
I meant to raise a flag, but
The white ones won the day;
I meant to tell you what I meant, but
The meaning lost its sway;
And though I always meant to ask you,
I always feared you wouldn’t stay.

Letters

My thoughts are my letters,
That never get sent, sir;
My thoughts are my letters
That never get done.

I mean to write letters —
But some are much better;
I mean to write letters,
But they’re never quite done.

They’re there in my mind, sir:
My kindest of letters;
They’re there in my mind, sir,
But what can be done?

Best left to their betters,
These thrice-cursed letters;
Best left to their betters,
For I am quite done.

Your Little Fool

Bear with me,
Watch me patiently:
Try to read my story,
Though I know I am a fool.

There are times I’ll say
More than ought to cross your way,
And then there’s times I’ll say
Almost nothing at all.

And if you try to stay,
It might be me who turns away;
Mad with the fear I might not see the day,
I verge so nearly upon cruel.

But if you try to see,
And accept even the worst of me,
I don’t think I could be anything
But your lucky little fool.

Tough

If you have nothing nice to say,
Say nothing at all.
…Until you’re badgered again and again
To be the little princess, the doll:

Then, you have to speak —
But never of what matters;
And listen patiently to everything,
But never offer answers.

‘Cause who needs those, really?
We each make up our own.
And who cares, really,
If it even hits home?

Like everything else,
It’s just… good enough.
And if you’re not content:
Well — tough.

Of Few Words

There are people who say things every day,
And those who speak once in a blue moon;
Before the wind blows the words away,
The latter are just making sure they’re true.

If It Doesn’t Scream

I do not say it
If it doesn’t scream.
If it whimpers in quiet
Well, just let it be.
Let it die its lonely death,
It doesn’t need to be said;
It’s just a waste of breath,
And it’s better off dead.

Speak To Me

What I wouldn’t give
For just one word:
For you to tell me
What’s on your mind.
And whatever you say,
Come what may,
I’d rather hear you say it
Than be blind.