A heart that weeps.
A soul that's broken.
Nostalgic is the love for someone, something, anything.
It's a mindless job, the hands do and the brain fades.
What was once talent and genius is now passionless. But it provides a nice income.
Love or money.
Money buys you stuff. Lots of stuff. Cluttering appears not only in a house.
But love is priceless. Though, it won't buy you a thing.
Funny how the best feeling, emotion and gift in the world can never be bought or sold.
I can hear the sorrow in his voice, as tears start to well in mine. I can see the effort, know it's not going to waste.
Don't stop trying, there's not just another side, there's as many as you like.
The world isn't black and white.
It's a mellow yellow.
A tickeled pink.
The blue moon.
A whiter shade of pale.
The greenest grass.
Your face lights up, as it does sometimes. Yellow is written all over it.
Remember what made you happy.
Stop making it easy to remember the bad things and forget the best. Stop, please.
Know how much you make me cry with laughter. And how much your words helped me when I was halfway across the globe.
Know how they made me cry with joy to know you have always been here, thinking of me when you should've been thinking of yourself.
I would never wish you any different, just happiness.
Words may never have made much sense but hopefully you stumble upon this one day in your office and
maybe you'll stop and smile. Like you do. And your face lights up, and writes its' yellow.